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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF. CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 

MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/bookofhighromancOOwillrich 


THE  HIGH  ROMANCE 


^jr^^ 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NBW  YORK  •    BOSTON  •   CHICAGO  -  DALLAS 

ATLANTA   •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


THE  BOOK  OF 
THE  HIGH  ROMANCE 

A  SPIRITUAL  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


BY 

MICHAEL  WILLIAMS 


Nfttt  Qark 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 

1918 

AU  rights  reserved 


COfTRIGHT.    1918 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published,   April,   1918 


TO 
MARGARET 

There  is  a  story  inside  the  story  written  in  this  book,  my  dear 
Peggy;  a  secret  story,  written  within  and  beneath  and  through  the 
other  one,  as  in  a  code  understandable  only  by  you  and  me.  It  is  the 
story  I  could  not  write  as  it  deserves  to  be  written  even  though  my 
skill  were  all  that  as  a  young  man  I  used  to  think  it  was.  More- 
over, it  ought  not  to  be  written  even  if  I  could  do  it;  because  books 
belong  to  the  world  but  our  love  does  not.  Yet  the  book  comes 
from  our  love,  it  is  ours,  like  our  children;  but  if  we  sent  our  chil- 
dren out  into  the  world,  to  do  some  piece  of  work,  or  to  carry  a 
message,  still  would  we  know  that  no  matter  how  well  they  might 
acquit  themselves,  their  best  and  their  loveliest  belonged  to  us,  be- 
longed to  the  fireside — that  fine  flame  of  odorous  pine  and  oak  and 
sea-drift  which  has  illuminated  so  many  of  the  best  pages  of  the 
inside-story.  If,  however,  I  were  to  have  attempted  to  relate  that 
never-ending  romance  which  is  all  our  own:  the  story  that  simply 
refuses  to  slacken  in  interest;  you  know,  I  am  sure,  the  paragraph 
in  the  written  story,  the  outside-story,  where  the  other,  the  secret,  the 
inside-story,  would  begin.  Exactly  how  you  would  start  it,  I  of 
course  cannot  tell;  but  for  me  it  begins  with  a  lonely,  wild-hearted 
young  poet  staring  in  strange  astonishment  at  a  gypsy-faced  girl — 
(bom  and  bred  in  New  England,  where  did  she  get  that  impetuous 
energy  of  life?),  in  a  cream  coloured  waist,  and  a  ra-a-ather  short 
skirt,  with  the  most  bewitching  little  feet,  curled  up  on  a  couch  in 
a  Boston  boarding  house  (imagine  it,  romance,  the  high  romance, 
in  a  Boston  boarding  house;  but  so  it  was).  It  would  continue  in 
a  wizardry  of  moonlight,  in  a  park  where  tall,  dusky  trees  under  a 
violet-purple  sky  laughed  and  whispered  together  in  the  warm, 
perfumed  summer  breezes,  and  it  would  be  starred  with  mystical, 
musical  words — like  Norumbega,  and  Franklin.  The  first  makes 
me  dream  of  the  music  of  wood-wind  and  violins — like  those  in 
Tristen  and  Isolde,  do  you  remember?    The  second  is  like  the  chime 


MS18331 


of  silver  bells  and  cymbals,  and  suggests  players  moving  in  wood- 
land masques  upon  a  forest  bank.  Are  they  names  of  places,  I 
wonder,  or  magical  words,  part  of  an  enchanter's  spell?  And 
there  would  be  chapters  containing  other  strange  words  and  names; 
Nemonie,  for  example,  and  why  it  stands  for  love-in-friendship; 
and  Mamie,  and  Tippyann;  and  why  Manchester  and  Manchester 
Green  bring  back  the  thought  of  deep  things,  of  things  belonging 
only  to  the  secret  book,  the  inside-story.  And,  also,  it  would  have 
to  explain  why  in  the  very  greatest  chapters  of  all  the  true  books 
of  the  high  romance  it  is  written  that  the  love  and  the  union  of 
husband  and  wife  are  types  and  figures  of  the  love  of  God  for 
the  soul,  and  their  union;  but  this  is  like  unto  the  story  that  Paul 
brought  back  from  the  third  heaven:  equally  as  true  and  equally 
as  untellable.  But  this  I  know,  and  this  I  may  say,  namely,  that 
if  there  has  been  granted  to  me  so  great  a  thing  as  even  to  suggest, 
even  to  hint  at,  the  reality  and  the  beauty  of  the  high  romance,  I 
owe,  next  only  to  God,  the  thanks  to  my  wife. 


PART  I 
THE  OUTWARD  WAY 


THE  BOOK  OF 
THE  HIGH  ROMANCE 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   CRYSTAL   HOUSE 

1.  My  Father 

MY  father  was  a  sailor  who  had  worked  his  way 
from  before  the  mast  to  the  captaincy  and  own- 
ership of  a  brigantine  plying  in  the  West  Indian  trade 
from  Halifax,  Nova  Scotia.  I  do  not  know  much 
about  his  family  origin,  or  his  early  life;  but  it  runs 
in  my  mind  that  his  father  had  been  a  Welshman,  an 
officer  in  the  British  Navy,  who  for  some  unknown 
reason  retired  from  the  service  and  settled  in  Cape 
Breton,  where  he  married,  and  died  not  long  after- 
wards. My  father  began  his  sea-faring  life  when  he 
was  a  boy  of  sixteen;  at  first  going  out  with  the  fish- 
ing fleet,  and  then  to  deeper  waters,  and  the  far  places ; 
acquiring  sufficient  education,  at  last,  through  his  own 
unaided  efforts  to  gain  first  a  mate's,  and  then  his  cap- 
tain's papers.  He  was  a  very  tall,  dark-featured, 
handsome  man;  who  looked  much  more  like  a  mili- 
tary officer  than  a  sailor,  so  erect  did  he  carry  him- 
self.    His  fellow  sailors  called  him  "The  Gentle- 

3 


4  The  High  Romance 

man."  He  was  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  going  with 
the  fair  tide  of  his  fortunes,  when  he  sailed  away 
upon  his  last  voyage,  from  which  he  never  returned, 
and  which  was  the  beginning  of  my  own  adventures 
in  the  high  romance  of  life. 

I  was  then  fourteen  years  old,  and  the  eldest  of  six 
children;  five  boys  and  one  girl.  We  lived  in  a  com- 
fortable wooden  house  standing  in  a  quiet  street  that 
ran  from  the  foot  of  Citadel  Hill — the  fortress  that 
dominates  the  city — southward  for  a  few  miles,  end- 
ing not  far  from  die  military  graveyard. 

Some  distance  beyond  the  graveyard  began  the  for- 
est of  spruce,  hemlock,  and  maples  which  covered 
Point  Pleasant,  the  extremity  of  the  peninsula  on 
which  the  city  lay,  dividing  the  great  harbour  into  two 
unequal  portions.  From  the  upper  windows  of  the 
house  there  was  a  far  glimpse  of  the  harbour  mouth 
and  the  sea.  The  sound  of  the  surf  could  be  heard  at 
tidal  hours,  and  the  air  of  the  street  was  surcharged 
with  seasmell.  The  shutting  down  of  thick  fog  was 
frequent;  causing  a  chill  and  melancholy  obscurity, 
accentuated  by  the  dismal  sound  of  horns  and  bells. 
I  would  feel  an  instant  depression  of  spirit  as  the  air 
darkened  and  dampened  and  the  horn  on  Devil's  Is- 
land began  to  groan  from  its  hoarsened  throat.  I 
hated  foggy  weather,  not  because  of  darkness,  for  I 
loved  the  night,  so  long  as  there  were  stars,  or  the 
moon;  but  the  tenebrous  vagueness  of  the  fog — the 
sense  also  of  its  menace  to  those  upon  the  sea,  ob- 
scurely offended  me. 

Hundreds  of  schooners  and  brigantines  in  those 
days  made  Halifax  their  home  port,  plying  to  and 
from  the  West  Indies,  exchanging  the  salt  codfish. 


The  Crystal  House  5 

lumber,  and  ice  of  that  northland  country  for  the  rum 
and  molasses,  sugar  and  fruits,  of  the  tropics.  The 
vast  harbour,  the  shores  of  which  up  to  the  very  streets 
of  the  city  were  covered  with  sombre  forests  of  spruce 
and  hemlock,  was  enlivened  by  puffing,  fussy  tug- 
boats and  scores  of  white  sails  furling  or  unfurling, 
and  by  the  rattling  of  anchor  chains,  and  the  hearty 
voices  of  sailors  and  fishermen  tramping  round  their 
capstans,  or  working  about  the  wharves,  singing  old 
chanteys  or  swearing  in  the  strange  dialects  of  Cape 
Breton  and  Nova  Scotian  Scotch,  French,  or  Irish. 
Water  Street  and  the  quarter  adjacent  were  crowded 
with  West  Indian  warehouses,  marine  store  deal- 
ers, grog-shops,  and  the  children-stuffed  tene- 
ments of  families  humbly  dependent  in  one  way 
or  another  upon  the  moody  and  capricious 
sea. 

Morning,  noon  and  night  I  heard  with  constant 
pleasure  the  clear,  brisk  bugle  calls  ringing  out  from 
the  barracks  near  Citadel  Hill.  Troops  frequently 
marched  through  the  city.  The  scarlet  uniforms  of 
infantrymen  dotted  the  grey  of  the  streets  with  bright 
spots. 

Halifax  in  my  time  was  the  headquarters  for  the 
British-Atlantic  squadron  as  well  as  a  garrison  town. 
It  was  made  lively  with  sailors  and  fishermen  seeking 
compensation  for  the  toil  and  danger  of  the  sea. 
There  was  the  fluttering  of  flags,  the  throbbing  of  band 
music,  the  blare  of  bugles  and  drumming,  from  the 
war-ships  and  from  a  score  of  forts  and  barracks. 
Strong  and  contagious  currents  of  vital  passions,  and 
the  intangible  yet  potent  sorceries  wrought  by  the 
spirits  of  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil,  circulated 


6  The  High  Romance 

in  its  sea-freshened  atmosphere.  Men  there  came 
together  who  knew  all  the  ends  of  the  earth  and  the 
sins  and  joys  and  sufferings  thereof;  men  of  the  world- 
encircling  army  of  England  who  had  protected  or 
fought  for  its  flag  in  Burmah,  Afghanistan,  or  the 
Indies  east  or  west;  and  sailors  who  knew  the  ports 
and  islands  of  all  the  seas. 

Twice  I  went  with  my  father  long  voyages,  when  I 
was  very  young,  visiting  Trinidad,  Jamaica,  and  other 
West  Indian  islands.  But  my  memories  of  my  father 
especially  concern  themselves  with  his  returns  from 
the  sea.  Then  what  fun,  excitement,  wonder,  and  ro- 
mance! For  when  he  came  home  from  a  voyage, 
life  in  our  home — as  in  so  many  other  homes  of 
that  city  of  the  sea  on  such  occasions — became  ex- 
alted, vividly  coloured,  swift  of  movement.  If  it  was 
summer,  he  would  drive  from  the  wharf  in  an  open 
carriage;  if  it  was  winter,  in  a  sleigh,  with  the  bells 
all  a-jangling,  the  carriage  or  sleigh  stuffed  full  of 
gifts.  There  would  be  fragrant  crates  or  baskets  of 
strange,  tropical  fruits:  pineapples,  cocoanuts,  alli- 
gator pears,  mangoes,  Jamaica  oranges,  sugar-cane 
from  Trinidad;  curious  shells,  which  we  children  put 
to  our  ears  in  order  to  hear  the  sound  of  far  away 
waters ;  branches  of  coral ;  pieces  of  silk ;  and  Spanish 
shawls. 

Fellow  captains  began  the  next  day  to  come  to  this 
house  where  during  its  master's  long  absences  no  men 
save  the  priest  or  the  doctor  would  be  seen;  only 
women:  the  wives  or  the  widows  of  seamen.  These 
big,  rough  men  shook  the  house  with  their  tread  and 
their  voices;  they  made  it  suddenly  seem  very  small. 
They  drank  French  wine  from  Martinique,  or  rum 


The  Crystal  House  7 

from  Barbadoes,  and  smoked  richly  odorous  cigars 
smuggled  out  of  Cuba  or  Puerto  Rico. 

.  .  .  Then  my  father  would  go  away  again,  and 
life  slackened,  and  drooped  and  paled. 


2.  My  Father's  Last  Voyage 

When  I  was  about  thirteen  years  old,  my  father 
bought  a  ship  of  his  own,  mortgaging  the  house  in 
Queen  Street  to  pay  for  it,  and  took  my  mother  and 
the  two  younger  children  with  him  on  a  long  voyage. 
Two  other  children  were  placed  with  relatives,  while 
Ernest  and  I,  the  two  eldest,  were  sent  to  the  boarding 
school  conducted  by  the  Jesuit  Fathers  in  New  Bruns- 
wick. 

One  day,  some  three  months  after  entering  the 
school,  while  on  a  high  swing  in  the  college  recreation 
grounds,  I  fell,  and  broke  my  leg.  I  was  placed  in 
the  infirmary  and  word  of  the  accident  was  sent  to 
my  father's  agents  in  New  York — the  port  he  was 
expected  to  call  at  on  his  homeward  voyage  from 
Jamaica. 

When  my  mother  heard  of  the  accident  nothing 
would  satisfy  her  but  to  leave  the  ship  at  New  York, 
hurry  to  me  by  railway  and  take  me  home;  there  to 
be  coddled  while  my  leg  mended.  My  father  was 
opposed  to  the  plan.  I  was  receiving  the  best  of  care 
at  the  infirmary  of  the  college.  I  would  be  all  right 
just  where  I  was. 

He  wanted  my  mother  to  stay  on  the  brigantine  and 
go  back  with  him  to  Jamaica.  He  had  been  offered 
a  contract  to  take  a  cargo  to  a  Central  American  port. 
It  would  be  more  profitable  than  the  Jamaica  voyage, 


|B  The  High  Romance 

but  yellow  fever  was  then  prevalent  along  the  Central 
American  coast. 

So  my  father  said  that  if  my  mother  remained  with 
him  he  would  take  the  Kingston  offer;  if  she  returned 
to  Halifax,  he  would  take  the  Central  American 
freight.  He  had  no  fear  of  fever  for  himself,  but, 
of  course,  he  would  not  expose  his  wife  and  children 
to  Yellow  Jack. 

My  mother  tried  to  win  on  both  points — ^to  return, 
and  at  the  same  time  to  get  my  father  to  consent  to  go 
to  Kingston  and  not  to  Central  America.  He  could 
not  be  moved,  however,  and  at  last  my  mother  decided 
that  she  must  go  back  to  me.  She  really  felt  little 
fear  for  her  husband.  The  wives  of  sailors  are  like 
the  wives  of  city  firemen  or  railway  engineers — they 
get  used,  after  a  while,  to  the  dangers  their  husbands 
run  and  take  small  account  of  matters  that  would 
appal  the  wives  of  other  men. 

So  my  mother  took  the  train  for  New  Brunswick, 
and  not  many  days  later  my  father  sailed  for  Colon. 
On  board,  acting  as  one  of  the  crew  in  order  to  learn 
seamanship,  was  my  half-brother  Matthew,  my  father's 
son  by  his  first  marriage. 

My  mother  duly  reached  the  college  and  took  me 
home  to  Halifax,  where  I  completed  my  period  of 
convalescence,  and  then  hopped  around  on  crutches, 
rejoicing  over  my  brothers,  who  had  to  go  to  school, 
while  I  did  not. 


3.  How  My  Mother  Dreamed  Strange  Dreams 

Dreams  had  at  one  time  played  a  large  part  in  my 
mother's  life.     She  was  at  this  time  very  young, 


The  Crystal  House  9 

hardly  more  than  a  girl,  and  beautiful;  a  loving 
mother.  She  was  a  Welshwoman — of  the  strange, 
Celtic  blood  that  has  produced  seers  and  visionaries 
since  the  dawn  of  history.  As  a  girl,  she  had  been 
subject  to  dreams  of  flying.  She  would  seem  to 
make  strange  and  awful  flights  through  the  air,  visit- 
ing countries  she  had  never  heard  or  read  of.  From 
these  dreams  she  would  wake  exhausted,  frightened, 
and  trembling.  As  she  grew  older,  however,  the 
dreams  ceased  and  for  many  years  her  sleep  had  been 
untroubled;  until  this  night. 

Our  house,  as  I  have  said,  was  not  far  from  Citadel 
Hill,  which  holds — or  did  hold,  twenty-five  years  ago 
— a  quite  peculiar  place  in  the  lives  of  the  wives  and 
children  of  sailors,  because  it  was  the  custom  to  hoist 
on  the  flagstaff  surmounting  the  ramparts  the  signals 
of  arriving  ships.  They  would  be  sighted  from  Sam- 
bro  Light,  thirty  miles  beyond  the  harbour,  to  the 
south,  and  their  coming  announced  by  telegraph. 

It  was  now  drawing  nigh  the  time  when  my  father 
might  be  expected,  and  every  day  we  ran  into  the 
street  a  dozen  times  to  see  if  "his  flag"  was  flying. 


.  .  .  And  many  were  the  women  in  that  seaport 
town  who  watched  day  after  day,  until  their  hearts 
sickened,  for  signals  that  never  were  displayed — ^the 
signals  of  vessels  which  had  sailed  to  the  Port  of 
Missing  Ships.  And  sometimes  it  happened  that  a 
signal  would  be  shown,  and  yet  the  ship  would  never 
arrive. 

...  I  remember  how  once  we  were  gladdened  by 
the  appearance  of  a  signal  which  denoted  the  ap- 


10  The  High  Romance 

proach  of  a  vessel  on  which  the  elder  of  my  two  half- 
brothers  was  second  mate.  On  his  next  voyage,  he 
was  to  go  with  my  father  as  first  mate.  His  ship 
came  so  near  the  harbour  as  to  take  a  pilot  aboard. 
Yet  she  never  came  into  port. 

It  was  near  sundown  when  she  had  been  sighted. 
That  night,  there  came  on  a  blinding  storm  of  snow 
and  wind.  The  ship  disappeared  with  more  than 
twenty  men.  Her  wreckage  never  came  ashore.  She 
must  have  struck  a  rock  and  sunk  into  the  depths;  or 
else  was  run  down  by  one  of  several  large  steamers 
which  left  or  entered  port  that  night.  .  .  . 


But  now,  to  tell  the  dreams  my  mother  dreamed, 
dreams  which  have  so  deeply  puzzled  me.    .    .    . 

She  dreamed,  on  the  first  occasion,  that  she  was 
awake  and  sitting  in  her  room  at  night,  where  there 
came  a  fluttering  and  tapping  of  something  against 
the  window  glass.  Inexplicably  startled,  she  hesi- 
tated for  a  long  time,  but  at  last  slowly  approached 
the  window. 

There,  through  the  glass,  she  saw  by  the  dim  light 
of  the  lamp,  a  small,  black  bird  with  a  cross  vaguely 
marked  in  white  on  its  breast.  It  was  a  bird  strange 
to  that  northern  land,  but  similar  ones  my  mother  had 
seen  in  sub-tropical  countries. 

She  felt  an  anxiety  to  observe  it  closer.  She  tried 
to  open  the  window  to  let  it  into  the  room.  At  this 
moment,  however,  it  turned,  and  winged  its  way  into 
the  darkness. 

My  mother  was  deeply  perturbed.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  the  appearance  of  the  bird  was  ominous — but 


The  Crystal  House  11 

ominous  of  what,  she  could  not  tell.  And  even  while 
she  stood  there,  brooding  on  its  coming  and  its  mean- 
ing to  her — for  that  it  meant  something  to  her  she 
felt  sure — the  room  faded  before  her  eyes,  and  she 
was  far  from  it,  and  far  from  the  city. 

As  she  looked,  she  recognized  the  new  scene.  She 
was  before  the  door  of  my  school  in  New  Brunswick. 
She  had  come  to  take  me  home  to  recover  from  the 
effects  of  my  accident.  As  she  entered  the  hallway, 
a  group  of  priests  came  forward,  dressed  in  their 
long,  black  cassocks.  They  were  whispering  together, 
and  were  seemingly  very  much  disturbed.  From 
the  depths  of  the  college  there  came  the  sound  of 
low,  mournful  singing  and  muttered  prayers;  all  most 
inexpressibly  dreary. 

I  was  carried  out  to  her  in  the  arms  of  two  of 
the  bigger  students,  and  my  mother  ran  forward  to 
embrace  me.  Just  then  a  messenger  came  rushing 
into  the  hall,  calling  loudly  on  my  mother's  name. 
He  was  shouting: 

"You  are  to  go  home  at  once!  The  Captain  is  very 
ill!     He  wants  you!" 

A  priest  came  to  my  mother  and  told  her  a  cab 
was  at  the  door.  Into  this  my  mother  and  I  were 
hurried.     We  were  driven  swiftly  to  a  wharf. 

This  was  a  highly  incongruous  detail,  for  the  col- 
lege was  situated  in  an  inland  town. 

It  seemed  to  my  mother  that  the  ship  rushed  on  at 
a  high  rate  of  speed  through  a  stormy  sea,  under  a 
black,  cloud-filled  sky.  But  of  time  she  had  no 
idea.  She  could  not  tell  whether  it  took  years  or 
seconds  to  make  the  voyage.  It  ended  at  a  wharf  in 
the  harbour  of  Halifax.     There  was  a  cab  waiting. 


12  The  High  Romance 

and  into  this  she  and  I  were  hustled  by  waiting  men, 
and  then  the  cab  was  driven  in  wild  haste  through  a  be- 
wildering maze  of  streets. 

As  we  drew  near  our  house,  a  bell  began  to  toll 
dismally.  The  street  was  filled  with  a  throng  of  peo- 
ple. They  pressed  about  the  cab,  stopping  it,  and 
crying  out: 

"You  are  too  late!  You  are  too  late!  The  Cap- 
tain is  dead!" 

The  shock  of  the  announcement  awoke  her,  with  a 
cry  on  her  lips  that  rang  through  the  still  house,  and 
tears  streaming  down  her  face.  Even  the  realization 
of  the  fact  that  it  was  only  a  dream  did  not  suffice  to 
shake  off  her  terror  and  grief.  The  next  day,  she 
told  her  dream  to  several  of  her  friends,  and  said  she 
feared  it  foreboded  trouble. 

Her  friends  sensibly  laughed  at  such  superstitious 
ideas,  and  when,  a  few  days  later,  my  mother  received 
a  letter  written  by  my  father  from  Colon,  saying  all 
was  well,  she  was  poignantly  relieved.  .  .  .  She 
did  not  stop  to  think  that  this  letter  had  been  a  long 
time  coming  from  Colon,  and  that  much  might  have 
happened  since  it  was  written. 

Some  weeks  afterward,  we  children  were  playing 
in  the  street  before  our  house,  when  one  of  the  priests 
attached  to  the  cathedral  called  on  our  mother. 

A  few  minutes  later  a  flustered  neighbour  gathered 
us  together  and  took  us  into  the  kitchen,  bidding  us 
to  be  "very  good,  and  not  make  a  noise,"  because  our 
mother  was  not  well.  The  door  of  the  kitchen  was 
locked,  and  from  behind  the  locked  door  came  the 
sound  of  a  woman  crying.  .  .  . 

I  still  remember  how  I  huddled,  with  two  of  my 


The  Crystal  House  13 

brothers,  close  against  that  locked  door,  little  chil- 
dren all  of  us,  and  how  we  wailed  in  our  uncompre- 
hending fear,  and  cried  out  for  our  mother,  and  beat 
upon  the  barrier  between  us. 


.  .  .  The  priest  had  brought  the  news  of  my 
father's  death. 

At  the  first  definite  words  he  uttered,  my  mother 
arose  from  her  seat  with  a  cry  that  rang  through  the 
house:  "I  know  he  is  dead — my  dream  told  me  that!" 

Yes,  he  was  dead — and,  so  far  as  later  investiga- 
tion could  show,  allowing  for  the  difference  in  time 
between  Halifax  and  the  point  where  the  vessel  was 
when  death  came  to  my  father,  he  had  died  at  the 
hour  when  my  mother  had  dreamed  her  weird  dream. 

He  had  caught  yellow  fever  in  Colon,  but  struggled 
against  the  disease,  until  he  was  many  days  out  at  sea. 
Bad  weather  obliged  him  to  expose  himself,  for  it 
unfortunately  chanced  that  the  first  mate  was  an  in- 
competent sailor.  The  day  he  died,  however,  the 
weather  was  fine. 

My  father  was  in  his  berth  when,  realizing,  no 
doubt,  that  his  hour  was  at  hand,  he  arose,  walked 
unassisted  to  the  deck,  and  laid  himself  down. 

In  plain  sight  of  my  half-brother  Matthew,  and  of 
the  mates  and  the  sailors,  all  of  whom  afterwards  told 
of  the  occurrence,  a  small,  black  bird  with  a  white 
cross  marked  on  its  breast  suddenly  appeared  and 
perched  on  my  father's  bosom,  some  stray  bird  blown 
off  from  the  shore  that  alighted  on  the  ship. 

The  awed  sailors  watched  it.  They  afterward  de- 
clared that  the  dying  man's  lips  moved  as  though  he 


14  The  High  Romance 

spoke  to  the  bird.  Death  came  to  him  soon  after- 
ward, and  then  the  bird,  frightened  by  the  approach 
of  the  seamen,  arose  and  fluttered  away  from  the 
ship,  and  winged  its  course  toward  the  unseen  shore. 

A  lock  of  hair  was  cut  from  the  dead  man's  head, 
for  his  widow.  They  put  him  in  the  canvas  coffin  of 
the  sea  and  launched  him  into  the  deep.  He  first 
went  to  sea  as  a  boy;  the  most  of  his  life  was  passed 
on  blue  water,  and  I  think  it  well  that  he  should  still 
be  rocked  by  the  waves  and  know  the  deep  peace  of 
the  ocean  depths. 


Such  was  my  mother's  dream.  So  far,  although 
strange,  there  is  nothing  that  cannot  be  explained  by 
telepathy — by  saying  that  perhaps  my  father's 
thoughts,  reaching  out  strongly  toward  my  mother  as 
he  died,  influenced  her  thoughts,  even  in  her  sleep, 
and  caused  her  dream. 

This  may  be  so — but  how  shall  we  explain  the  fol- 
lowing? 

Six  months  later,  my  mother  dreamed  another 
dream. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  sitting  in  a  room  in 
her  house,  with  my  brother  Ernest  in  her  arms,  and 
that  Ernest  was  a  baby — although  he  was  in  fact  a 
boy  of  ten. 

Then  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  saw  through  a 
nearby  window  a  cloud  coming  down  out  of  the  sky 
and  approaching  the  house  at  a  speed  which  terrified 
her.  But  she  could  not  cry  out  or  move.  The  cloud 
came  to  the  open  window;  it  streamed  through  like 
smoke  or  fog;  then  approaching  her  it  formed  again 


The  Crystal  House  15 

into  a  denser  mass,  and  then  opened,  and  she  saw  the 
figure  of  her  dead  husband,  dressed  as  she  had  often 
seen  him  dressed  in  hot  weather  on  ship-board  in  the 
tropics — in  trousers,  and  shirt,  in  his  stockinged  feet, 
collarless  and  bareheaded. 

He  said  nothing,  but  looked  at  her  sorrowfully,  and, 
coming  near,  reached  down  to  take  the  boy  from  her 
arms. 

She  shrank  back  and  attempted  to  cling  to  the 
child — frightened,  yet  she  knew  not  why,  although 
even  in  her  dream  she  knew  her  husband  was  dead. 
But  he  gently,  yet  irresistibly,  loosened  her  hold  on 
the  boy  and  took  him  into  his  own  arms. 

Then  the  cloud  closed  about  him  and  the  child, 
and  moved  away,  and  my  mother  awoke  with  a  cry. 

This  dream  came  to  her  on  a  Thursday. 

The  next  Sunday  was  Easter  Sunday,  and  on  that 
day,  while  playing  on  the  rotten  ice  covering  a  dis- 
used quarry  hole  in  Point  Pleasant  Park,  my  brother 
fell  through  and  was  drowned. 

4.  Questions  Which  No  Boy  Can  Answer 

So  the  presence  of  death  made  itself  felt  very 
early  in  my  life. 

I  remember,  with  special  vividness,  a  day  when  I 
was  playing  with  a  group  of  boys  before  our  house, 
before  my  father's  death.  We  were  very  noisy,  for 
the  game  was  "Devil  Steal  the  Sheep,"  and  every  one 
was  engaged  in  thumping  the  adversary  of  mankind 
— an  old  and  favourite  game  among  the  Canadian 
boys,  in  my  time,  but  I  have  never  seen  it  played  by 
American  children.     We  were  screaming  in  laughter. 


16  The  High  Romance 

yelling  and  running  about;  but  save  for  our  activities 
the  street  was  still  and  empty.  It  was  a  hot,  summer 
afternoon.  The  place  was  one  remote  from  traffic. 
There  was  a  grocery  store  on  the  comer,  but  no  busi- 
ness was  going  forward.  If  we  children  had  been 
still,  there  would  have  been  profound  silence  .  .  . 
and  then  the  silence  came,  we  grew  still. 

A  man  appeared,  walking  briskly  round  the  comer 
into  our  street.  He  suddenly  slumped  and  fell  upon 
the  ground.  He  dropped  as  an  old  coat  might  slip 
loosely  from  a  peg.  He  lay  upon  the  ground  like 
a  garment  sprawled  out. 

A  man  ran  out  of  the  grocery,  other  men  hastily 
following,  and  we  children  deserted  our  game  and 
scurried  at  their  heels. 

"Stand  back — give  him  air — ^loosen  his  collar — get 
some  water!  Who's  got  a  flask? — get  away  from 
here,  you  children!     One  of  you  run  for  the  doctor!" 

But  one  man  twisted  his  head  over  his  shoulder, 
looked  up  and  said,  "Never  mind  the  doctor;  send 
for  the  priest!" 

What  a  queer  thing!     The  man  was  dead! 

And  I  remember  how  the  children,  an  eddy  of 
excited  life,  shrank  back  in  sudden  terror  of  this  limp, 
disheveled  heap  on  the  ground. 

The  silence,  I  say,  had  come.  It  had  come  for  the 
man  on  the  ground;  and  for  me.  I  backed  away 
from  the  group,  still  gazing  fixedly  at  the  dead  man. 
There  was  a  queer  feeling  in  the  flesh  of  my  cheeks, 
as  though  the  skin  had  crawled  tightly  together. 

What  did  this  thing  mean? 

The  man  walked  round  the  comer  of  the  street  on 
a  sunny  afternoon;  a  man  who  was  going  home  to  his 


The  Crystal  House  17 

family,  or  to  his  work,  or  perhaps  on  his  way  to  see 
the  cricket  game  on  the  Common.  He  walked  round 
the  comer — round  the  corner  into  a  sunny  street,  and 
.  .  .  there  was  no  sun,  no  cricket,  no  street,  no 
family. 

But  there  was  death! 

And  what  is  death? 

"What  does  it  mean  when  you  die?"  I  asked  some- 
body, our  housemaid,  I  think. 

I  had  run  into  the  house  to  tell  the  news. 

"Oh,  if  you  die  and  are  a  good  boy,  you  go  to 
heaven!" 

"Did  the  poor  man  go  to  heaven?" 

"If  he  was  a  good  man,  dear.  I  hope  to  gracious 
he  was — poor  soul — what  a  terrible  thing!  .  .  . 
You  must  not  ask  any  more  questions.  .  .  ." 

Was  she  right?" 

Must  we  not  ask  questions  about  death? 

Is  it  folly  to  ask  questions? 

But  I  could  not  escape  such  questions.  They  were 
constantly  suggested  by  the  many  soldiers'  funerals 
which  passed  through  our  street. 

There  would  come,  all  at  once,  the  sound  of  the 
music  from  far  away,  borne  on  the  wind.  There 
would  be  the  slow,  dull  boom  of  a  drum.  I  would 
hasten  into  the  street. 

The  procession  passed  very  slowly,  as  if  reluc- 
tantly, the  men  bearing  their  rifles  in  unnatural  po- 
sitions behind  their  backs,  with  the  muzzles  pointing 
to  the  ground.  The  dragging  shuffle  of  their  heavy 
boots  was  even  more  lugubrious  than  the  rumbling  of 
the  muffled  drums,  and  the  mournful  music  that  made 
me  feel  a  sad,  feverish  excitement.     The  coffin  went 


18  The  High  Romance 

by  on  a  gun  carriage,  outlined  starkly  beneath  a  flag. 
If  the  dead  man  had  been  an  officer  his  orderly  led  his 
horse  behind  the  coffin,  saddled  and  bridled,  but  cov- 
ered even  to  his  head  with  a  black  cloth  which  gave 
the  riderless  animal  an  aspect  strange  and  heraldic. 
So  they  would  pass.  Men  in  the  street  would  stop 
and  lift  their  hats.  Presently,  from  the  distance, 
would  come  the  sound  of  three  volleys  of  blank 
cartridges  discharged  over  the  open  grave.  Some- 
times I  would  follow  the  procession  to  the  grave- 
yard, and  would  draw  as  near  to  the  scene  as  I  dared, 
my  heart  throbbing  painfully  as  the  volleys  shook  the 
air.  Then  the  earth  rattled  on  the  coffin.  The  voice 
of  the  clergyman — a  strange  figure  in  his  black  cas- 
sock and  white  surplice  among  the  red-coated  soldiers 
— ^would  be  heard  reading  the  burial  service.  A  sin- 
gular awe  and  wonder  penetrated  me  when  I  heard  the 
words: — 

"When  this  corruptible  shall  have  put  on  incorrup- 
tion,  and  this  mortal  shall  have  put  on  immortal- 
ity, .  .  .  Oh,  death,  where  is  thy  sting?  Oh,  grave, 
where  is  thy  victory?" 

But  when  the  soldiers  returned,  their  heads  were 

erect  and  high;   their  rifles  pointed  upward;   they 

swung  along  to  the  liveliest  of  quickstep  marching 

tunes,  while  the  tightened  drums,  stripped  of  the  black 

crepe,  rattled  sharply  as  the  sticks  snapped  down  upon 

them. 

•  •••••• 

.  .  .  One  day  I  remember  running  out  into  the 
street  close  to  the  soldiers.  Addressing  one  of  them 
whose  face  looked  good-natured,  although  deter- 
minedly serious,  I  timidly  asked: 


The  Crystal  House  19 

*'Mister  Soldier,  what  made  the  other  soldier  die?" 

Looking  at  me  solemnly  (and  aware  that  no  officer 
was  observing  the  episode),  the  man  whispered 
huskily: 

"Because  he  could  not  get  enough  air  to  breathe, 
sonny — so  mind  you  don't  run  short  yourself!" 

Then  he  winked.  But  I  had  not  yet  been  initiated 
into  the  occult  significance  of  a  blinking  eyelid,  and 
I  retreated  to  the  sidewalk,  pondering  upon  this 
singular  item  of  new  knowledge,  namely,  that  men 
die  because  they  cannot  get  enough  air  to  breathe! 

I  was  profoundly  puzzled.  This  was  most  strange 
and  mysterious!  Gazing  upward,  where,  suspended 
beneath  a  blue  'dome,  brightened  by  brilliant  clouds 
a  number  of  gulls  were  tracing  slow,  wide  curves  of 
gliding  flight,  it  was  impossible  to  imagine,  still  less 
to  see,  an  end  to  the  air.  The  sky,  I  knew,  was  not 
a  solid  roof  enclosing  the  world ;  for  this  I  had  learned 
in  school,  along  with  other  valuable  things  intended 
to  help  me  through  life,  such  as  that  Washington  was 
the  capital  of  the  United  States,  and  that  two  and  two 
made  four.  There  was  air  on  all  sides,  up  and  down 
and  from  side  to  side ;  miles  and  millions  of  miles  of 
air.  Why  then  could  not  men  get  all  the  air  they 
needed?  Why  should  they  die?  What  was  it,  really 
and  truly,  to  die?  What  did  the  clergyman  mean 
when  he  said  that  "This  corruptible  shall  put  on  incor- 
ruptibility?   ..." 


.  .  .  Fascinating  and  impenetrable  mysteries! 
For  years  they  brooded  over  my  mind.  But  I  at  last 
gave  up  my  attempts  to  ask  questions  concerning  them. 


20  The  High  Romance 

For  I  learned  that  either  grown-up  people  were  as 
ignorant  as  myself  or  else  it  was  wrong  to  seek  such 
knowledge. 

"You're  too  young  to  ask  silly  questions." 

"Little  boys  should  be  seen  and  not  heard." 

"Run  away  and  don't  bother  me!" 

"What  a  queer  child  you  are,  to  be  sure!  Leave 
those  matters  alone  and  you'll  be  better  off." 

So  I  was  told,  and,  by  and  by,  my  curiosity,  retreat- 
ing abashed  from  futile  efforts  to  appease  its  hunger, 
remained  voiceless,  awaiting  a  more  favourable  time. 
I  read  more  and  more.  I  spoke  less  and  less  of  the 
things  which  went  on  within  my  heart  and  mind  and 
soul. 

5.  I  Begin  to  Face  the  World 

The  death  of  my  father  left  us  in  absolute  poverty; 
and  my  mother  opened  her  home  (it  was  heavily  mort- 
gaged) to  lodgers  and  boarders,  beginning  her  long 
fight  to  rear  her  children.  Not  long  afterwards,  I  was 
taken  from  the  public  school  and  put  to  work  in  a 
wholesale  dry  goods  warehouse,  and  began  my  long 
fight  to  rear  my  children, — my  brood  of  dreams; 
dreams  that  unrestingly  struggled  for  birth  as  shapes 
of  art. 

My  first  memory  is  of  a  dream,  of  a  dream-idea  for 
a  story  concerning  a  crystal  house  in  which  music 
played  and  beautiful  people  walked  amid  crepuscular 
corridors  and  gardens.  There  was  a  sound  of  water; 
there  was  the  stir  of  wind  in  the  bushes.  I  did  not 
talk  of  it  as  other  children  talk  of  their  fancies — I 
brooded;  and  as  soon  as  I  could  hold  a  pen,  I  built 
the  first  wavering  sketch  of  my  house,  on  paper,  with 


The  Crystal  House  21 

ink,  in  words.  I  learned  to  read  and  write  at  an 
early  age,  and  my  conscious  memories  begin  with  this 
act  of  literary  creation. 

.  •  •  One  day  in  school  my  teacher  asked  the  boys 
to  repeat  any  verse  they  knew  in  which  the  word 
cherubim  was  used.  Several  of  them  repeated  lines 
from  hymns.  I  remember  stumbling  through  a  quo- 
tation from  Paradise  Lost.  The  teacher  stared,  and 
bade  me  remain  after  school  was  dismissed.  I  won- 
dered what  mischief,  unknown  or  unremembered,  I 
was  to  be  punished  for.  But  the  teacher  wished  to 
talk  with,  not  at  me.  The  raw-boned,  Scotch-Irish 
enthusiast  walked  up  and  down  the  deserted  school- 
room reciting  his  own  rhymed  version  of  Pyramus 
and  Thisbe.  He  discussed  literature  with  me,  the 
hobbledehoy.  He  lent  me  a  copy  of  Spenser's  Faerie 
Queen.  He  wished  to  see  my  writings.  I  walked 
home  slowly,  luxuriously;  and  was  too  excited  with 
my  silent  happiness  to  eat  my  supper. 

The  teacher  raged  heatedly  against  the  decision 
when  he  learned,  a  few  weeks  later,  at  a  time  when 
his  pupil  was  being  specially  prepared  by  him  for  the 
High  School,  that  I  was  leaving  him — a  kind  friend 
of  my  widowed  mother  had  obtained  work  for  the 
orphan  in  a  wholesale  dry-goods  warehouse. 

I  made  no  outcry.  I  did  not  rebel.  I  did  not 
understand.  I  would  earn  enough  to  clothe  and  help 
to  feed  me;  the  "opening  was  a  splendid  one";  I 
would  become  "a  drummer,"  a  travelling  salesman  no 
less,  by  and  by,  if  I  proved  a  good  boy,  faithful  and 
industrious;  some  time  (who  should  say  nay?),  I 
might  be  a  member  of  the  firm.  The  kind  friend 
of  the  family,  reassuring  my  doubting  and  sorrowing 


22  The  High  Romance 

mother,  hastened  to  qualify  this  optimistic  view  by 
pointing  out  the  exalted  splendour  of  such  a  destiny. 


6.  The  Shadow 

So  I  left  school  and  went  to  work  in  the  warehouse. 
On  the  day  I  started  my  new  life,  while  walking 
through  a  small,  public  park  that  had  once  been  a 
burial  ground,  I  was  brooding  over  a  poem.  It  was 
to  be  about  a  captain,  who,  trying  to  steer  his  ship 
through  a  storm,  amid  dangerous  reefs,  is  thrust  from 
the  helm  by  a  stranger  who  appears  on  the  deck.  My 
idea  was  that  the  stranger  was  a  stowaway,  hiding  in 
the  hold ;  a  man  who  knew  the  perilous  waters  through 
which  the  craft  went  staggering,  and  who  came  to 
the  aid  of  the  captain.  But  suddenly  my  idea 
changed.  I  seemed  to  see  the  figure  on  the  tilted 
deck,  pushing  the  captain  aside.  How  I  thrilled  when 
I  observed  that  beneath  the  sou'wester  worn  by  the 
stranger  there  was  visible  no  face.  The  apparition 
was  no  man!  Who  then,  could  he  be?  Who  but 
death? 

It  was  as  though  from  the  earth  of  the  little  park, 
under  the  shade  of  the  tall  trees  nourished  by  the 
bones  of  the  dead,  there  emanated  a  subtle  and  com- 
pelling suggestion  of  mortality  that  insensibly  entered 
my  mind  as  the  morning  air  entered  my  lungs.  In 
the  grove  of  cool,  murmuring  elms — their  heads 
warmed  by  the  sun — beneath  the  brooding  earth,  the 
dead  lay  thick;  and  in  the  whispering  leaves,  in  the 
blades  of  green,  sweet  grass,  moving  to  the  wind,  the 
dead  re-entered  life,  were  again  made  part  of  it — life 
that  is  not  complete  without  death.     And  if  dead 


The  Crystal  House  23 

flesh  may  suspire  into  new  life  through  the  mysterious 
veins  of  the  soil,  of  the  trees,  the  grass,  the  atmos- 
phere, a  volatile  yet  essential  element  of  the  eternal 
chemistry  of  creation,  may  not  perished  hopes  and 
dreams,  forgotten  in  the  depths  of  the  soul,  mystically 
influence  the  birth  of  new  aspirations  and  quicken  the 
womb  of  the  spirit?  I  had  dreamed,  almost  uncon- 
sciously, of  what  the  life  of  the  schools,  of  culture, 
might  mean  to  me;  and  my  hopes  had  died;  and  per- 
haps their  phantoms  mingled  with  the  aura  of  mor- 
tality that  on  this  morning  of  spring  sunshine  so 
strangely  aff'ected  me  in  the  transformed  graveyard; 
bringing  to  me  for  the  first  time  what  I  was  never  to 
forget:  the  feeling  of  the  part  played  by  death  in  the 
aff'airs  of  life. 

There  was  no  sadness,  far  less  fear,  in  the  new 
idea.  No  thoughts  are  sad  to  an  artist  in  the  act 
of  creating;  only  joy  accompanies  that  function  of 
quint-essential  life.  Joy  is  the  will  to  live.  And  my 
boy's  heart  thrilled  with  the  delight  of  the  fresh 
incentive,  of  the  new  thought,  the  powerful  idea,  the 
element  that  gave  my  work  (my  work-to-be!)  strength 
and  dignity;  a  necessary  shadow,  an  essential  colour 
— a  something  that  I  had  hitherto  lacked.  There 
must  be  rain  in  the  air  for  the  glorious  bow  to  shine 
forth  its  splendour.  Against  the  shadow  of  death, 
the  colours  of  life  would  more  vividly  glow.    .    .    . 

Slowly  I  passed  on  through  the  grove — ever  after- 
ward to  be  remembered  with  the  tenacious  faculty  that 
records  the  images  of  those  places  where  our  deepest 
thoughts  and  most  enduring  impressions  come  to  us 
— on  to  the  warehouse.  To  start  me  aright  in  the 
career  th^t  should  lead  me  to  a  drummer's  sample 


24  The  High  Romance 

case,  they  gave  me  a  broom  and  a  watering  pot  and 
bade  me  sweep  the  floor  of  the  second-story  stock 
room — a  huge  place,  seventy  yards  long  by  forty 
wide. 

That  night  my  pen  chafed  the  broken  blisters  on  my 
fingers. 

7.  Years  Of  Bondage 

In  this  warehouse,  I  worked  for  five  years,  from  my 
thirteenth  to  my  eighteenth  year.  It  was,  however, 
captivity  with  compensations.  In  that  sleepy  sea-port 
town — not  even  characteristic  of  Canadian  commer- 
cial activities,  but,  as  a  military  and  naval  station, 
dominated  by  British  traditions  and  customs — com- 
mercial life  was  not  the  maelstrom  in  which  lives 
swirl  jostling,  sinking,  and  rising,  yet  all  imprisoned, 
as  in  the  cities  of  the  States.  The  head  of  the  firm 
was  a  kindly  Irish-Canadian  member  of  Parliament 
whose  father,  the  founder  of  the  house,  was  a  baronet; 
his  eldest  son  was  a  partner;  he  supported  pensioners; 
he  trained  what  were  virtually  apprentices;  he  was 
very  good  to  his  employes  and  his  example  was  fol- 
lowed by  his  chiefs  of  departments.  There  was  one 
— Eduard  Ryan  was  his  name — whom  I  wondered  at 
because  always  he  was  singing  as  he  went  about  his 
work:  the  work  which  to  me  was  so  distasteful.  He 
was  very  kind,  and  to  kindness  I  was  sensitive  as  a 
plant  is  to  sunshine;  but  I  avoided  him,  because  he 
was  an  ardent  Catholic,  and  he  kept  urging  me  toward 
religious  duties  and  practices  for  which  I  had  no 
slightest  inclination. 

I  was  stock-clerk  of  one  entire  floor  of  the  vast 
four-storied  building.     I  had  to  sweep  the  depart- 


The  Crystal  House  25 

ment  once  a  week;  dust  the  goods  daily;  open  and 
empty  the  cases  and  bales;  maintain  my  counters  in 
neat  array;  and  from  the  stock  pick  out  the  goods 
ordered  by  the  drummers  on  the  road.  A  great  deal 
of  my  time  I  was  alone;  and  I  lived  a  singular  life 
among  the  thousands  of  boxed  neck-ties,  the  corsets, 
collars,  soaps, — the  "dress-goods,"  the  "linings,"  the 
"embroideries,"  and  the  rest.  Hardly  a  day  passed 
that  I  did  not  bring  into  my  place  of  work  books 
borrowed  from  the  Public  Library,  concealed  under 
my  coat.  I  secreted  them  in  various  places.  I  also 
kept  manuscript  volumes  hidden  away — made  from 
old  sample  books  discarded  by  the  drummers;  and  on 
the  leaves  blotched  with  dried  mucilage  and  patches 
of  fabrics  torn  out  to  make  room  for  words,  I  pen- 
cilled my  naive  little  tales  and  poems.  .  .  .  The 
artist  will  make  use  of  anything. 

My  favourite  reading,  writing,  and  dreaming  place 
was  by  a  window  at  the  rear  of  the  building.  The 
window  opened  on  a  court  at  the  bottom  of  which 
I  could  watch  craftsmen  bent  over  their  benches  and 
tables.  One  was  a  jeweller;  and  sometimes  there 
would  flash  in  that  dingy  well  amid  the  brick  stores 
the  scintillant  fires  of  gems,  or  the  gleam  of  gold. 
There  was  also  a  metal  worker,  whose  hammer 
chinked  musically;  and  in  the  autumn  and  winter 
evenings  the  glare  of  the  fire  from  his  little  forge 
would  flicker  luridly  upward,  reddening  the  walls, 
and  swaying  on  the  ceilings  of  the  room,  causing 
me  to  thrill  strangely,  and  vaguely  to  dream  of  stories 
of  mystery  and  adventurous  romance. 

I  made  no  friends.  I  was  as  solitary  as  a  pigeon 
in  a  flight  of  crows.     None  knew  of  my  secret  dreams 


26  The  High  Romance 

— until  a  fat-headed  drummer  came  across  my  book 
of  poems,  told  the  others,  and  made  a  joke  of  the 
matter,  a  joke  that  affected  me  like  some  shameful 
indignity — my  soul  was  bared  before  grossly  laugh- 
ing men;  and  I  felt  as  a  young  girl  might  when 
affronted  by  some  immodest  act; 

The  bell  in  my  department  rang  my  signal;  I  went 
to  the  manager's  desk  and  was  solemnly  rebuked  for 
wasting  my  time.  Nevertheless,  small  fault  was 
found  with  my  work.  I  earned  my  wage — ^five 
dollars  a  month.  Each  year  my  salary  increased 
until  I  was  finally  receiving  five  dollars  a  week!  and 
I  came  one  degree  nearer  the  end  of  my  career — 
the  drummer's  room  upstairs  where  sample  trunks 
are  packed,  and  the  brisk  commercial  travellers  fore- 
gathered, gossipping  and  exchanging  pornographic 
stories. 

But  I  never  reached  that  end.  Perhaps  it  was 
mere  chance  that  intervened.  Or  could  it  have  been 
that  the  architect  of  the  house  of  crystal — ^that  force 
beyond  the  child  that  had  breathed  into  the  forming 
brain  its  mystic  plans — reaching  out  for  a  new 
builder,  another  maker  of  things,  felt  that  its  appren- 
tice had  served  years  enough  of  bondage  in  this 
place?   .    .    . 

8.  Adolescence 

For  a  period  of  more  than  a  year,  I  ceased  to  write, 
and  read  little.  Life  was  subtly,  powerfully  asserting 
its  claim  upon  my  body,  as  well  as  upon  that  peculiar 
use  it  demanded  of  my  spirit.  There  were  times 
when  I  felt  choked  to  the  point  of  suffocation  within 
the  four  granite  walls  of  the  warehouse,  into  which 


The  Crystal  House  27 

the  sunshine  and  air  came  only  through  the  few  opened 
windows. 

Every  day  at  noon  a  cannon  was  fired  from  the 
ramparts  of  Fort  St.  George,  on  Citadel  Hill.  While 
its  explosion  was  shaking  the  air,  hundreds  upon  hun- 
dreds of  pigeons  would  mount  from  the  streets  in 
swirling,  interweaving,  rising  and  falling  intricacies 
of  flight,  the  sunshine  gleaming  on  their  feathers  of 
white,  of  pale  purple,  of  softly  iridescent  blues  and 
greys  and  mauves.  Then  they  would  mass,  and  sweep 
in  long,  looping  curves  to  and  fro — an  arabesque  of 
life  traced  upon  the  sky,  a  thrilling  rhythm  made 
visible.  At  last,  reaching  the  roof  of  the  Post  Office  in 
the  market  square,  they  would  separate,  and  settle  with 
fluttering  wings  and  pink,  reaching  claws,  while  their 
soft,  liquid  cooings  came  distinctly  to  my  ears  as  I 
stood,  fascinated,  at  a  window.  At  these  moments, 
the  sense  of  my  captivity  would  well  up  behind  the 
starting  tears,  like  a  wave  that  carries  spray  on  its 
crest. 

Or  from  this  upper  window  I  would  watch  the  sail- 
ing ships  and  steamers  going  to  and  fro  in  the  har- 
bour; schooners  from  the  fog-held  banks  of  New- 
foundland, laden  with  fish;  vessels  from  Europe  and 
the  United  States;  brigantines  from  the  warm  islands 
of  the  Caribbean  Sea;  craft  from  all  the  ends  of  the 
earth.  I  felt  beneath  my  feet  the  heave  of  the  sea,  as 
I  had  known  it  in  my  childhood  voyages  with  my 
father;  I  remembered  the  wondrous  islands,  where 
palm  trees  waved  and  I  plucked  tropical  fruit;  the 
coolies  of  Trinidad;  the  negroes  of  Barbadoes;  the 
leap  and  flash  of  flying  fish;  the  spouting  of  a  whale; 
the  hurricane  off  Cape  Hatteras;  the  rum  my  father 


28  The  High  Romance 

smuggled  from  Jamaica  which  the  sailors  stole  and, 
drinking,  fought  through  a  sudden  storm  blasphem- 
ing, each  man-Jack  of  them  drunk  most  gloriously, 
— all  this  I  recalled  in  vivid  recurrence  of  the  original 
sensations,  picture  after  picture  flitting  before  my 
eyes. 

Most  clearly  of  all  would  I  remember  a  naked 
youth  in  Jamaica  who  came  riding  at  dawn  to  the 
beach  with  six  spirited  horses  that  went  rearing  and 
plunging  into  the  water  of  the  bay,  their  manes  blow- 
ing out  above  them,  their  hoofs  threshing,  while  the 
youth,  his  bronze  body  gleaming,  strong  and  lithe  and 
swift,  dived  from  their  backs,  swam  beneath  the 
bellies  of  the  horses,  climbed  upon  their  necks;  sure, 
confident,  masterful.  That  boy  did  not  work  amid 
corsets  and  soaps  and  dress-goods,  cooped  up  in  a 
warehouse — not  he! 

A  drummer  appeared;  or  a  customer;  or  the  ele- 
vator rumbled  upwards  with  goods;  and  from  my 
brooding  reveries  I  would  be  called  to  work — 

But  no!     I  was  called  from  work! 

— In  the  summer  mornings  I  often  rose  at  day- 
break, and  went  to  a  wharf  in  the  harbour  to  plunge 
into  the  water,  into  the  cool,  fresh  morning  flood. 
This  wharf  was  near  the  spruce  forest  beyond  the 
city.  The  air  was  surcharged  with  sea-salt  and  fir- 
balsam.  The  vast  mouth  of  the  harbour  yawned 
sleepily,  still  veiled  in  morning  mist,  upon  the  At- 
lantic;— the  Atlantic;  that  great  sea  whose  name  al- 
ways stirred  me  like  the  master-word  of  a  necro- 
mancer's spell.  The  water  lipped  and  lapped  on 
the  beach,  murmuring  and  whispering —  Oh,  of 
what?     There  were  forts  and  batteries  in  the  forest; 


The  Crystal  House  29 

red-coated  soldiers  appeared,  to  fish  from  the  rocks 
for  flounders,  smoking  their  clay  pipes  and  laughing. 
I  was  sure  that  if  I  could  only  stay  and  talk  with  them 
I  should  hear  rare  stories  of  warfare  and  wanderings 
in  far  lands. 

Or  vagabonds  from  the  town  walked  slouchingly 
along  the  roads;  they  lit  fires  on  the  sand  and  dug 
clams;  gathered  periwinkles  and  mussels,  and  dulse, 
that  edible  sea-weed,  and  concocted  for  themselves 
wonderful  breakfasts.  There  was  one  lame  drunk- 
ard who  would  steal  a  bottle  of  milk  on  his  way  to 
the  shore  for  the  day,  and  his  fish  or  clam-chowder 
was  famous. 

Curlews  and  kingfishers  skimmed  the  level  reaches 
by  the  brackish  pond;  the  gulls  began  their  foraging; 
the  fishermen  from  Herring  Cove  were  putting  out 
to  the  banks;  anchored  ships  got  under  way;  brassy 
bugles  blared  drill  calls  from  the  forts;  a  detachment 
of  Royal  Engineers  marched  at  ease  along  the  road, 
the  young  officer  in  command,  smiling  to  himself  and 
thinking  of  the  dance  at  Government  House  the  night 
before.   .    .    . 

But  time  will  not  linger  for  dreamers;  I  had  to  go 
home,  eat  breakfast,  get  to  the  warehouse  at  eight 
o'clock,  and  sweep  my  department,  amid  the  muddy 
smell  made  by  the  water  sprinkled  on  a  dusty  floor. 

9.  The  Words  That  Would  Not  Come 

.  .  .  Saturday  afternoons  and  Sundays  were  my 
own,  all  my  own;  and  they  were  devoted  to  rambles 
in  the  woods,  and  along  the  shore.  I  carried  a  book 
but  read  little.     Sometimes,  in  the  midst  of  a  fit  of 


30  The  High  Romance 

brooding,  I  would  start  into  intense  physical  activity 
and  race  at  top  speed,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock;  or 
climb  a  tree  and  swing  to  the  ground  again  from  a 
bending  bough.  Or  in  a  secluded  place  I  engaged 
in  some  mysterious  play  of  make-believe  such  as 
might  have  pleased  a  boy  of  ten — my  lost  childhood 
living  on  in  my  elder  blood,  struggling  to  attain  the 
joys  of  which  it  had  been  deprived.  Or,  my  mood 
modulating  to  the  key  of  mystic  dreams,  suddenly 
as  I  was  walking,  or  stretched  on  the  grass,  in  the 
sun,  my  open  book  neglected,  in  the  summer  air  there 
would  come  the  wavering  semblance  of  the  house  of 
crystal,  and  through  its  shadowy  though  not  gloomy 
corridors,  through  the  gardens  of  dim  colours,  the 
sounds  of  music,  and  the  influences  of  perfumes,  there 
would  pass  vague  and  mysterious  figures.  Some 
were  Queens  or  pale  Princesses  of  romance,  followed 
by  their  maidens.  How  unlike  was  their  walk,  undu- 
lant,  soft  and  light,  to  the  tramplings  of  the  Royal 
Engineers,  the  slouching  step  of  the  envied  vagabonds, 
the  rolling  gait  of  sailors!  What  was  in  their  eyes 
that  troubled  me,  that  hinted  at  stories  such  as  sailors 
and  tramps  and  soldiers  did  not  know?  Why  did  my 
heart  beat  hurriedly,  why  did  my  breath  come  faster, 
why  did  my  blood  become  warmer,  so  that  I  felt  it 
running  through  my  veins? 

And  often  the  day  passed,  and  the  stars  appeared, 
and  night  was  upon  me  before  I  turned  homeward. 
Stars,  or  the  moon,  shedding  pale  light  on  the  wide 
harbour;  a  white  thread  of  tinkling  foam  on  the  black 
sand;  the  trees  sighing  strangely;  the  water  soughing 
amid  the  shoal-rocks  off  shore — and  I  would  fuse  into 
one  vast  flood  of  feeling  all  things  that  aff'ected  me. 


The  Crystal  House  31 

The  house  of  crystal  would  waveringly  change  to 
new  shapes  and  receive  new  guests.  The  sailors, 
fishers,  vagabonds  and  business  men  would  mingle 
with  the  fair  women,  amid  the  music;  and  invariably 
while  some  revel  was  going  on,  and  the  windows  shone 
with  lights,  while  vague  love-scenes  were  enacted  in 
the  misty  gardens,  and  wine  flowed  at  the  board 
within — invariably  the  shadow  would  appear,  he 
whose  face  could  not  be  seen,  he  who  on  the  tilted 
deck  of  the  dream  ship  had  thrust  the  Captain  from 
the  tiller.  ... 

One  night  just  as  I  thus  thought  of  death  inter- 
rupting the  revels  in  the  house  of  crystal,  I  emerged 
from  a  clump  of  trees,  and  my  shadow  appeared, 
bobbed  for  a  breath  on  the  glimmering  dust  of  the 
roadway,  and  then  suddenly  was  absorbed  in  the 
darkness  by  the  hedge.  I  stood  still,  stricken  by  a 
thought.  Even  as  all  men  had  shadows  of  their 
bodies,  so  also  had  they  shadows  of  their  souls,  of 
their  essence,  projected  from  their  bodily  forms  into 
space;  and  these  shadows  were  their  deaths!   .  .  . 

But  upon  the  writing  paper  I  could  not  ensnare  my 
thought;  I  could  not  build,  only  dream.  The  magic 
words  would  not  come.  In  despair,  I  threw  aside  the 
pen  and  crept  into  bed,  crying  like  a  girl-child,  con- 
vinced that  something  had  happened  to  me,  and  that 
never  again  would  I  write. 

10.  Music  Consoled  Me 

And  more  and  more  I  plunged  myself  into  all  life 
that  I  could  enter. 

One  real,  potent  pleasure  I  received  through  mem- 


32  The  High  Romance 

bership  in  the  band  of  one  of  the  local  regiments  of 
volunteers.  The  acme  of  my  pleasure  came  when  the 
regiment  went  route  marching. 

In  the  big  parade  ground  the  long  line  would  break 
into  company  formation,  then  into  fours,  marking 
time;  the  proud  colonel  would  nod,  and  an  important 
major  shout:  "  Quick  march!" 

"Rub-adub-adub-adub-adub !  Rub-adub-adub-adub- 
adub!" 

Twice  the  drums  roll  loudly,  inspiringly;  the  big 
drum  booming,  the  kettle  drums  snarling,  followed 
by  the  full-voiced  crash  of  brass  and  wood-wind  as 
the  band,  fifty  strong,  step  forth,  leading  the  line. 
The  gates  of  the  parade  ground  open;  the  expectant 
crowd  in  the  street  is  parted;  the  volunteers  dimly 
see  the  faces  of  their  admiring  or  envying  friends, 
sisters,  sweethearts.  .  .  .  The  moment  is  tense;  I 
thrill,  as,  with  small  boys  holding  oil-torches  that 
smoke  and  flare  ruddily  to  light  the  music  cards  of 
the  bandsmen,  the  regiment  pours  out  from  the 
armoury,  the  trampling  of  their  steady  feet  sounding 
like  unto  huger  and  hollower  drums  than  those  that 
pound  before  them.  Above,  there  is  the  high,  purple, 
starry  vault  of  the  summer  sky.  The  sea-wind  is 
blowing,  full  of  smells  of  the  sea;  it  bends  the  flame 
and  smoke  of  the  torches  backward.  I  march  in  one 
of  the  ranks  of  the  clarinets;  but  I  rarely  play  the 
instrument,  although  I  hold  it  to  my  mouth.  I  am 
listening  to  the  others,  entranced  by  the  sound;  fas- 
cinated and  stirred  to  my  heart  by  the  romance  of 
this  nocturnal  expedition;  and  although  I  keep  step 
sturdily,  I  walk  as  one  in  a  dream.  The  tossing 
crimson  of  the  torch-light;  the  gleams  of  brass  and 


The  Crystal  House  33 

German  silver,  of  pipe-clayed  helmets  and  scarlet 
tmiics;  the  rhythmic  thud  of  the  feet  behind  me,  the 
sense  of  the  irresistible  onwardness  of  the  regiment 
holding  me  and  compelling  me  forward;  the  dim 
thoughts  of  war;  thoughts  that  this  battalion  had 
marched  into  battle,  and  that  again  it  might  do  so, 
I  with  it — all  this  got  into  my  blood  like  fever. 

Twice  a  week  I  went  to  the  bandroom  for  practice. 
I  was  a  music- lover,  but  not  a  musician;  for  a  long 
time  I  did  not  advance  beyond  the  stand  of  the  third 
clarinets ;  but  I  was  quite  content  to  be  there  blowing 
monotonous  notes  of  accompaniments!  "tul-lul-lul-lul- 
la!  Tul-lul-lul-lul-la!"  over  and  over  again,  among 
the  fifty  players,  mostly  young  men  of  the  city,  clerks, 
mechanics,  small  business  men,  but  all  musicians  on 
these  nights,  and  smokers  and  beer  drinkers  to  a  man. 
And  with  real  love,  deep  earnestness,  they  would  blow 
into  the  rumbling  or  cracking  brass,  the  sweet  or  shrill 
sounding  wood  or  reed,  tunking  the  stretched  sheep- 
skin, clashing  upon  the  cymbals,  standing  in  a  circle 
at  their  wooden  music  stands  beneath  the  malodorous 
oil-lamps  around  which  clung  and  eddied  blue-grey 
wisps  of  tobacco-smoke,  producing  a  semblance  at 
least  of  the  magical  sounds  of  music;  and  at  times 
as  I  stood  there  with  the  clarinet  held  silently  at 
my  mouth,  my  senses  would  seem  to  swim,  to  bathe, 
to  dive,  to  immerse  themselves  in  the  torrent  of  tone 
that  issued  from  this  assemblage  of  puffed-cheeked, 
sweating  men. 

11.  The  Stock  Boy  Turns  Editor 

So  this  year,  my  nineteenth,  passed,  and  still  I 
was  lonely,  still  I  lived  the  life  of  a  solitary.     I  had 


34  The  High  Romance 

family  aflfections;  family  cares,  duties,  ties;  I  even 
had  a  few  acquaintances  that  might  be  termed  friends. 
But  what  a  man  wants;  what  a  man  will  travel  the 
wide  world  over  to  find,  is  sympathy,  and  apprecia- 
tion of  his  work — whatever  the  work  may  be.  Two 
plumbers  meet — and  they  can  commingle  in  sympathy 
as  they  can  solder  a  joint  together.  So  with  a  states- 
man, a  singer,  a  hunter, — ^what  not.  I,  like  most 
artists,  could  become  interested  in  any  man,  and  in 
any  man's  work;  I  could  understand  the  peculiar 
problem  of  the  drummer,  of  the  band-master,  of  my 
mother,  my  sister,  my  brothers,  my  friends;  but  none 
could  understand  mine ;  I  lived,  so  far  as  all  my  asso- 
ciates were  concerned,  in  the  fourth  dimension. 

At  the  end  of  this  year  my  eagerness  to  read  and 
write  returned  as  insensibly  as  it  had  left  me;  and 
I  became  acquainted  with  a  book-seller  interested  in 
literature  who  wished  to  start  a  little  magazine.  The 
book-seller  engaged  to  find  advertisers  enough  to  pay 
the  printing  bills;  I  undertook  the  editorship — ^which 
meant  that  I  tried  to  fill  the  pages  of  the  pamphlet 
with  my  own  work  and  some  matter  clipped  from 
English  periodicals.  I  was  not  to  receive  any  pay ;  by 
and  by,  we  agreed,  the  magazine  would  be  profitable; 
then  I  would  have  a  salary;  I  would  be  a  free  man. 

I  prepared  the  matter  for  the  printer;  some  of  my 
verses ;  an  essay  on  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  the  ruling 
literary  god  of  my  firmament  at  that  time  (R.  L.  S. 
had  just  died);  and  a  sheaf  of  clippings.  Leaving 
the  stock-room  at  odd  times  during  the  day,  with  cap 
hidden  under  jacket,  I  would  steal  out  the  back  door 
where  the  goods  were  handled  and  run  at  the  top  of 
my  speed  to  the  printer.     My  first  proofs  were  won- 


The  Crystal  House  35 

derful  to  me  as  treasures  from  the  cave  where  Ali 
Baba  spake  the  magic  word  of  fortune.  I  corrected 
them  by  means  of  the  page  on  proof-reading  which  I 
tore  from  the  back  of  the  old  dictionary  at  home. 

And  one  day  while  I  was  patiently  following  the 
foot-steps  of  a  drummer  about  the  warehouse,  drag- 
ging a  huge  wheeled  basket  in  which  I  was  placing 
the  goods  selected  to  fill  the  drummer's  order,  I  sud- 
denly heard  from  the  street  without  the  shrill  voices 
of  newsboys  calling  out  the  name  of  my  magazine. 

What  a  moment!  Something  thrilled  within  me  to 
the  very  core  of  my  being;  in  the  depths  of  my  nature 
something  stirred,  erecting  itself.  It  seemed  to  stand 
amid  all  the  darkness,  all  the  doubts,  all  the  uncer- 
tainties, upright  and  indestructible,  the  centre  of  all 
things;  something  that  dominated — like  the  figure 
I  in  a  medley  of  letters,  around  which  the  others  may 
be  grouped  or  after  which  they  may  be  marshalled — 
like  I  prefixed  to  the  letters  c-a-n  d-o;  or  the  letters 
w-i-1-1; — I  will;  I  can  do!  I  had  accomplished  some- 
thing— a  deed  akin  to  what  I  desired  to  do;  I  had 
planted  a  seed  of  will,  and  a  flower  had  sprung  from 
the  soil  of  circumstances;  and,  this  being  so,  on  this 
highway  I  would  travel;  and  the  future  opened  in  a 
flash  before  me  like  a  landscape  seen  by  lightning  at 
night.  .  .  . 

But  the  drummer  said :  "For  God's  sake,  kid,  get  a 
move  on!  What's  the  matter,  anyhow?"  And  in 
words  of  the  same  sense  my  employers  spoke  to  me 
soon  afterwards.  I  could  not  "serve  two  masters";  I 
could  not  expect  to  edit  a  magazine  in  the  time  which 
they,  my  employers,  hired  from  me;  they  had  noticed 
that  my  usefulness  had  been  steadily  decreasing;  in 


36  The  High  Romance 

short,  would  I  take  four  weeks'  notice,  or  leave  at  the 
end  of  the  present  month  with  an  extra  month's  salary? 
I  accepted  the  latter  alternative.  I  left  the  ware- 
house without  emotion,  save  a  faint  regret  in  that 
never  again  would  I  loaf  and  dream,  read  and  write, 
in  the  corner  by  the  corset  counter;  even  my  sense  of 
freedom  did  not  reach  elation;  perhaps  because  my 
poor  mother  took  the  dismissal  so  much  to  heart.  It 
meant  more  work  and  worry  for  her;  but  I  am  afraid 
I  did  not  think  of  that.  I  plunged  into  the  work  of 
the  magazine;  but  it  lived  for  only  three  numbers. 
The  book-seller  found  that  the  advertisements  did  not 
pay  the  printer.  And  he  was  newly  married;  his 
wife  did  not  care  for  me ;  indeed,  I  readily  divined — 
as,  without  thought  or  effort  I  divined  the  moods  of 
others — that  she  was  jealous.  She  was  a  pretty  girl, 
tall  and  almost  stately,  and  the  bookseller  was  a  little 
man,  dyspeptic  and  be-pimpled;  nevertheless  she 
wanted  him  all  the  time,  jealous  even  of  his  thoughts. 
I  remember  smiling  and  marvelling;  then  I  sighed  and 
wondered  if  ever  a  woman,  entering  life  from  my 
house  of  crystal,  would  desire  me  as  the  pretty  girl 
desired  the  little  book-seller. 


So  the  magazine  died,  and  went  the  way  of  other 
dreams. 

It  had  gained  for  me,  however,  several  precious 
things. 

From  faraway  England  came  a  letter  from  a  real 
Author:  a  world-renowned  writer,  to  whom  I  had  sent 
a  copy  of  my  magazine  containing  my  first  published 


The  Crystal  House  37 

story;  telling  me  that  I  must  persevere.  "You  are 
an  untrained  writer,  but  unquestionably  you  have 
power.  Keep  on,"  wrote  the  great  English  writer. 
I  carried  that  letter  in  my  pocket  for  many  years. 
I  still  treasure  it  in  my  heart.  It  was  signed,  Israel 
Zangwill.  (It  was  twenty-five  years  ago  when  you 
sent  me  that  letter,  my  dear  Mr.  Zangwill;  and  no 
doubt  you  long  ago  forgot  it — but  kind  deeds  never 
die.) 

Also,  I  gained  a  friend;  and  discovered  an  author, 
at  one  stroke.  For  in  the  same  street  where  I  had 
lived  all  my  lonely  boyhood  years,  there  had  been 
living  a  fellow  writer,  and  we  had  not  known  each 
other;  another  dreamer,  and  we  had  dreamed  apart. 
But  now  I  met  him!  I  published  his  first  story. 
And  from  the  United  States,  from  the  editor  of  a 
magazine  celebrated  for  its  literary  quality,  came  a 
letter  to  my  contributor  praising  his  work;  asking  him 
for  stories.  So  William  Holloway's  career  began; 
and  in  time  his  work  was  well  known  in  many  maga- 
zines. And  our  friendship  has  endured  through  all 
the  years  since  we  met,  and  in  a  little  room,  the  two  of 
us  only,  formed  the  Pine  Tree  Club — devoted  to  the 
discussion  and  promulgation  of  Literature:  our  own 
in  especial. 

But,  alas,  this  did  not  last  long,  and  soon  we  sep- 
arated, and  I  did  not  see  or  hear  from  my  new  friend 
for  nearly  ten  years. 

For  now  we  left  Halifax,  for  Boston;  where  we  had 
relatives,  and  where,  we  believed,  there  would  be 
better  paid  work  for  all  in  a  great  city  with  room  for 
all  who  came,  with  theatres,  concert-halls,  schools. 


38  The  High  Romance 

books,  magazines:  the  Atlantic  Monthly! — a  city 
where  I  was  to  become  a  famous  writer,  with  life  made 
rich  with  work,  with  liberty  to  create  my  dreams; 
with  the  pursuit  of  happiness  at  last  begun  under 
favouring  auspices. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   HOUSE   OF   IRON 

1.  Boston 

OUR  romantic  illusions  in  regard  to  Boston  soon 
were  dispelled. 

Instead  of  our  spacious,  airy  house  in  its  own  big 
yard  near  the  harbour  beach,  we  lived  in  a  five- 
roomed  tenement,  among  the  crowded  tenements  of 
Roxbury. 

The  wages  we  boys  earned  as  errand  lads,  or  the 
like,  were  larger,  indeed,  than  we  earned  in  Canada — 
but  the  purchasing  power  was  so  much  less.  Our 
mother  was  obliged  to  leave  the  home  each  day,  and 
work  over  a  sewing  machine  down-town;  returning  at 
night  to  take  up  the  house-work  for  the  large  family. 

For  several  bitter  years  I  lived  in  Boston  in  wretch- 
edness, in  humiliation,  in  swinking  bodily  toil,  in 
grinding  poverty. 

Utterly  without  business  education,  or  business  fac- 
ulties, with  a  heart  full  of  dreams,  but  with  a  mind 
almost  wholly  untrained,  and  destitute  of  friendship 
or  influence,  I  was  quickly  submerged  in  the  depths 
of  unskilled  labour. 

I  could  not  even  secure  a  clerkship  in  a  department 
store;  the  best  I  could  do  was  to  tie  up  bundles  in  the 
packing-room. 

Afterwards  I  got  emplovment  above  ground  as  a 


40  The  High  Romance 

clerk  in  a  tea  store,  but  my  lovable  and  picturesque 
employer  drank  himself  into  bankruptcy,  and  again 
economic  necessity  hailed  me  to  labour  underground 
as  a  porter  in  the  filthy,  rat-ridden,  dank  sub-cellar 
of  a  five-and-ten-cent  store. 

I  had  no  leaning  toward  any  craft  or  trade — save 
that  of  writing,  and  in  that,  only  instinctively;  sans 
practical  ideas,  I  was  totally  ignorant  of  how  to  enter 
upon  the  life  of  letters  in  the  United  States,  save  by 
writing,  and  writing,  and  then  writing;  but  what  I 
wrote  at  that  time  was  almost  entirely  without  appeal 
to  the  magazines. 


Do  you  know  what  a  five-and-ten  cent  store 
is?  Some  Americans  have  made  millions  of  dollars 
out  of  them.  They  exist  by  selling  the  cheapest  of 
cheap  and  nasty  goods  to  the  poor,  and  to  the  would- 
be  economical.  They  do  not  advertise,  but  seek  a 
position  in  all  the  cities  they  enter  where  they  can 
gain  the  advantage  of  the  advertising  done  by  the 
great  department  stores.  They  employ  the  cheapest 
of  girl-labour.  One  of  their  characteristic  tricks  is 
to  fill  a  window  with,  say  agateware  sauce-pans  that 
could  not  possibly  be  bought  elsewhere  for  less  than 
twenty-five  cents,  together  with  a  placard  stating  that 
this  "bargain"  will  be  available  on  a  day  several 
weeks  ahead.  On  the  appointed  morning  there  is  a 
string  of  women  sometimes  a  block  long  in  line  before 
the  door  is  opened,  and  all  day  long  the  store  is 
packed  with  struggling,  jostling,  cross-tempered  wom- 
en. Now  mark  the  full  beauty  of  the  idea!  The 
saucepans  are  placed  on  a  small  table  far  up  the 


The  House  of  Iron  41 

store,  in  its  centre,  where  only  a  few  people  can  get  at 
them  at  a  time — and  the  rest  must  willy-nilly  flood 
the  store,  and  await  their  turns — and  buy  other  goods. 
The  cheapness  of  the  trash  tempts  the  pennies  away 
from  the  poor.  A  woman  will  enter  to  buy  a  five-cent 
corkscrew  and  come  out  with  it  and  three  crooked 
saucers  for  a  nickel,  a  shaving  cup  for  a  dime,  and 
so  on;  perhaps  a  dollar  will  go. 

My  employment  as  porter  in  this  place  was  the 
best  I  could  find.  Of  business  I  knew  nothing,  save 
how  to  sweep  floors,  take  care  of  goods,  and  wait 
on  customers;  but  at  this  latter  occupation  I  had 
never  been  proficient,  never  successful;  I  could  not 
create  with  my  tones,  my  words,  gestures,  and  manner, 
that  subtle  atmosphere  in  which  a  buyer,  insensibly 
yet  irresistibly,  is  led  by  the  real  salesman  to  the  pur- 
chase of  wares.  The  little  suggestions  of  look  and 
tone;  the  easy  fibs  and  bigger  lies;  the  tricks  of  per- 
suasion, the  onleading  wiles — all  these  I  could  not 
master. 

— I  was  one  of  a  gang  of  twenty  men  and  boys 
driven  by  a  foreman  of  half  African  blood.  The 
foreman  was  tall,  strong,  swarthily  handsome.  When 
he  doff"ed  his  overalls  at  night  and  stepped  out  into 
the  streets  the  figure  of  an  aristocrat  of  Abyssinia 
or  of  Numidia  who  should  not  have  been  wearing 
American  clothes  (well  as  his  fitted  him),  but  who 
should  have  been  driving  slaves  with  a  seven-thonged 
whip  through  the  torrid  sand  of  some  equatorial 
desert.  In  the  gang  there  was  a  drink-broken  grey- 
beard who  had  once  preached  on  predestination  from 
a  pulpit  in  Scotland.  There  was  a  lean,  saturnine 
Westerner  who  at  night  was  a  professional  poker- 


42  The  High  Romance 

player  in  the  cheap  hotels  of  the  equivocal  West  End. 
He  worked  by  day  merely  as  a  blind.  The  cellar 
was  as  a  jungle  wherein  he  hid  in  the  hours  of  the 
sun.  There  was  an  aging,  silent,  neck-bent  man 
who  once  had  owned  a  grocery  store;  and  although 
he  was  neither  strong  nor  agile,  he  laboured  harder 
than  any  of  the  others  for  his  nine  dollars  a  week. 
The  rest  was  riff-raff, — the  rag-tag  and  bob-tail  of 
the  drifting  unemployed.  Continually  they  were 
coming  and  going;  constantly  getting  drunk  and 
fighting  on  the  job;  sometimes  stealing;  and  being 
discharged  and  hired  from  day  to  day;  sometimes 
from  hour  to  hour.  Recruits  never  failed  this  gang 
of  unskilled,  the  unplaced,  the  nondescript,  the  in- 
efficient. 

We  toiled  furiously — because  the  foreman  was 
there;  and  well  did  he  select  his  pace-makers.  He 
had  eyes  of  amused  scorn,  and  a  voice  like  poisoned 
wine.  He  would  tell  you  in  vibrant,  musical  accents, 
and  smilingly,  what  a  misshapen,  malingering,  putty- 
boned  hound  of  the  gutters  you  were  as  he  handed  you 
your  time-slip  and  sent  for  another  man.  And 
through  the  cavernous  cellar  his  sweetly  sonorous 
tones  would  purl  in  a  romantic  song.  He  delighted 
in  telling  his  love-stories  to  his  favourite  hanger- 
on,  his  pimp,  so  that  others  could  hear  him;  and  in 
low  snarling  words  many  of  the  slaves,  angry  at  the 
thought  of  white  girls  smiling  at  him,  would  whisper: 
"The  nigger!  The  dirty  nigger!"  He  knew  this, 
but  lounged  among  us  in  confident  dominance.  He 
had  the  same  indifferent,  cynical  scorn  for  us  sweat- 
dirtied  slaves  of  the  sub-cellar,  whom  he  drove  to 
mean  tasks,  as  the  non-drinking  saloon-keeper  has  for 


The  House  of  Iron  43 

the  alcoholics  who  line  the  bar,  dribbling  foolish 
maunderings — and  supplying  him  with  a  living. 

From  the  street,  far  above,  the  barrels,  crates,  bales, 
and  boxes  were  ever  rmnbling  down  on  the  elevators. 
We  received  and  opened  them,  distributing  their  con- 
tents through  the  maze  of  departments  in  the  vast 
store  overhead.  All  day  long  we  ran  or  walked  or 
shuffled — according  to  our  energy,  our  temperament, 
or  our  degree  of  proximity  to  the  foreman,  floorwalk- 
ers, or  manager — loaded  with  dishes,  candy,  dolls, 
wash-pans — any  of  the  ten  thousand  and  one  things 
sold  in  the  store.  Others  laboured  with  the  hammers 
and  nail-pullers,  bent  above  the  barrels  and  boxes 
under  the  flaring  arc-lights,  encircled  by  hectic  halos, 
that  hissed  in  the  dark,  dust-laden  air  that  was  like 
unto  prismatic  scum  on  the  surface  of  a  stagnant  pool. 
There  was  a  smell,  acrid  and  powerful — ammoniacal 
— of  damp  straw,  of  rats,  of  sweat,  of  tobacco  juice, 
of  whiskey  and  gin,  of  steam  and  gas  and  coal  fumes. 

I  was  one  of  those  who  ran  to  and  fro  with  the 
loads.  That  was  my  job  from  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning  until  noon;  from  one  until  six  o'clock.  I 
would  much  rather  have  never  left  the  cellar.  Down 
there  I  toiled  among  fellow  slaves;  down  there  I  was 
alone  and  unseen — the  other  slaves  did  not  count. 
But  to  come  up  from  the  cellar  and  stagger  with  a 
load  through  the  crowds  of  women,  and  make  my 
way  among  them  to  behind  the  counters  where  the 
shop-girls  whisked  their  skirts  to  make  room  for  me 
to  pile  the  goods  away — I  whose  dream  was  of 
women  moving  harmoniously  through  the  corridors 
and  gardens  of  a  house  of  crystal — I  who  had  not 
known  of  women  buying  and  selling,  chaffering,  steal- 


44  The  High  Romance 

ing,  brow-beating,  back-biting,  shuffling,  struggling — 
this  was  what  made  me  dream  agonies  at  night. 

2.  Gleams  From  The  Palace  of  Art 

And  I  had  come  to  Boston  to  read  books  in 
the  Public  Library,  and  write  songs  and  tales  for 
which  I  was  to  get  enough  money  to  support  my 
mother  and  sister!  I  brought  as  contents  of  my  war- 
chest  in  the  descent  upon  Boston,  a  number  of  poems; 
the  half  of  a  novel;  the  sketch  of  a  play;  and  a  round 
score  of  short  stories.  They  were  nearly  all  about 
the  sea.  Unfortunately,  they  were  not  concerned 
with  piracies,  melodramatic  storms,  rescues  and  ad- 
ventures; but  dealt  with  what  you  think  and  dream 
of  the  ocean;  what  you  suppose  the  sea  hoarsely 
whispers  to  itself,  and  what  the  gulls  watch  as  they 
soar  and  dip  off-shore.  My  father  had  died  and 
been  buried  at  sea;  his  father  had  been  a  sailor.  I 
had  been  bom  on  the  shore  and  lived  there  for  nearly 
twenty  years.  There  was  salt  in  my  blood;  there  was 
a  kelpie  in  my  heart;  there  were  storms  and  calms, 
depths  and  mysteries,  fogs  and  boundless  horizons 
in  my  soul. 

Why,  then,  was  I  not  a  sailor  instead  of  a  slave 
in  the  cellar  of  a  ten-cent  store?  But  why  do  not 
saints  go  to  Heaven?  They  stay  on  earth  to  show 
the  way  to  God;  and  I  was  land-bound  because  I 
wished  to  sing  the  desire  of  the  sea. 

By  night  I  sat  up  till  all  hours  reading  and  writing 
or  went  prowling  through  the  more  crowded  city 
streets,  taking,  in  Baudelaire's  phrase,  baths  of  multi- 
tude, and  meeting  with  curious  adventures,  singular 


The  House  of  Iron  45 

acquaintances;  and  learning  much  queer  lore  about 
life.  At  this  time,  remember,  I  was  still  a  growing 
boy,  and  it's  a  good  thing  that  my  physique  possessed 
the  stamina,  the  innate  strength  that  it  must.  I  was 
always  reading;  carrying  books  in  my  pocket  to  read 
in  the  noon  hour  among  the  loafers  in  Boston  Com- 
mon, the  fishermen  on  Tea  Wharf,  the  teamsters 
around  Fanueil  Hall  Market,  for  I  can  always  make 
myself  easy  on  a  curbstone,  a  doorstep,  the  string- 
piece  of  a  dock.  I  was  a  constant  patron  of  the 
Public  Library,  and  on  Sundays  would  often  visit  the 
Art  Gallery  on  the  side  of  Copley  Square  opposite 
the  Library.  There  I  haunted  a  comer  where  hung 
a  number  of  William  Blake's  drawings,  and  Bume 
Jones'  "Chaunt  D'Amour."  I  dreamed  curious, 
vague  dreams  before  Blake's  pictures,  those  pictures 
in  which  gods  and  souls  move  in  unearthly  rhythms 
amid  swirling  eddies  of  air,  fire  and  water;  and  I 
drank  of  a  morbid,  and  at  that  time  unanalyzable, 
pleasure  before  the  "Chaunt  D'Amour";  thinking  to- 
day that  the  fever  of  sickness  then  springing  up  in 
my  body  influenced  me  to  recognize  those  consumptive 
dreamers,  swooning  life  away  in  languid  ecstacies  by 
the  stagnant  moat,  as  fellows  of  myself!  Whistler's 
etchings  brought  a  more  tangible  joy.  Here  was  the 
beauty  of  real  life,  of  the  actual,  of  the  everyday, 
transmuted  by  art;  and  they  made  me  at  once  humble 
and  ambitious  .  .  .  could  not  words  be  wrought  in 
a  like  spirit?  Yes,  I  would  think,  but  I  am  so 
ignorant,  I  have  no  skill,  and  I  must  spend  my  time 
sweeping  floors,  opening  crates,  lugging  goods.  .  .  . 
Nevertheless,  since  it  is  the  case  with  me  that  if  I 
should  be  placed  in  the  electric  chair  I  should  cer- 


46  The  High  Romance 

tainly  spend  some  of  my  last  minutes  in  dreaming 
of  how  the  shock  of  the  lethal  current,  the  twitching 
of  the  stricken  body,  and  the  thoughts  of  the  doomed 
soul  might  be  rendered  in  words,  even  then  I  was 
considering  how  the  fellow  helots  with  whom  I 
sweated  and  sickened  could  be  utilized  as  literary 
material.  .  .  . 


I  had  no  friends,  I  who  love  friends.  An  old 
companion  of  my  boyhood  was  in  Boston,  but  we 
drifted  apart  in  the  city  ways.  My  most  constant 
companion  was  my  landlord,  a  queer  alcoholic  Irish- 
man who  lived  in  one  of  his  own  tenements  and  knew 
Shakespeare  by  heart,  but  nothing  else;  and  he  knew 
the  bard  only  as  Poll  Parrot  knows  the  human 
language,  with  no  comprehension  of  ideas.  We 
struck  up  an  odd  kind  of  convivial  comradeship,  for 
he  was  a  kind-hearted  man,  and  my  friendships  are 
not  dependent  on  my  ideas  (thanks  for  that  goodly 
gift,  0  Life!).  Over  liquor-slopped  tables  in  the 
back  room  of  barrooms  we  carried  on  interminable 
discussions  of  Shakespeare,  and  quarrelled;  for  I  am 
Celtic  myself,  and  relish  a  ruction. 

And  my  poems  and  stories,  sent  to  the  magazines, 
returned.  The  whistle  of  the  postman  would  peal 
its  signal  in  the  dark,  grimy,  narrow  hall-way  of  the 
seven-storied  rabbit  warren  of  a  tenement  house  where 
we  lived  in  five  little  rooms;  and  I  would  run  to  the 
door  to  snatch  the  big  envelopes  from  the  letter-slip 
before  the  other  should  have  a  chance  to  see  them. 
They  all  came  back,  every  one. 

ITiere  was  something  wrong  with  my  work;  it  was 


The  House  of  Iron  47 

bringing  no  money,  to  say  nothing  about  place  and 
name.  And  I  must  work — I  must  earn  money! 
The  cost  of  living  in  the  city  was  frightful — the  rent, 
the  coal,  the  gas,  the  food,  the  clothes — everything 
was  expensive;  you  had  even  to  pay  car-fare  to  get 
to  and  from  your  job.  My  brothers  were  finding 
difficulty  in  securing  and  keeping  employment,  though 
they,  unhampered  by  my  particular  ambition,  were 
succeeding  better.  Yet  they  earned  little, — at  best 
they  could  only  get  positions  as  messengers  and  office 
boys.  Soon,  perhaps,  even  my  sister  might  have 
to  go  into  a  store,  my  little  sister,  my  pretty  sister, 
and  when  I  thought  of  this  possibility,  and  of  the 
girls  in  the  ten-cent  store,  paid  three  or  four  dollars 
a  week,  moiling  behind  the  counters,  beneath  the 
earth,  under  the  glaring  arc-lights,  in  the  dust  and 
fetid,  sweat-tainted  air,  tempted  by  the  lewd  men 
who  haunted  the  stores,  driven  by  task-masters, 
jostling  together  in  an  outrageous  promiscuity — when 
I  thought  of  all  this,  I  suffered  bitter  pain;  and 
knew  that  whatever  the  cost  to  myself  I  must  hold  on 
to  my  job  in  the  basement;  must  fight  with  others 
for  that  job;  must  follow  the  pace  keyed  up  by  the 
foreman  unto  the  last  peg — unto  the  point  where  my 
heart  strings  would  snap  as  a  fiddle  string  snaps  when 
drawn  too  tightly. 

3.  A  Gleam  of  Joy 

And  on  the  stretched  strings  of  my  heart  singular 
tunes  were  played  by  that  force  in  life  to  which  I  was 
an  instrument.  I  sang  no  longer  the  desire  of  the 
sea;  I  related  no  more  naive  little  legends  of  what 


48  The  High  Romance 

I  supposed  the  sea  hoarsely  whispers  to  itself  and 
what  the  gulls  watch  as  they  soar  and  dip  off-shore. 
The  salt  of  my  blood  savoured  no  rhyming  words, 
but  got  into  my  secret  tears;  and  the  kelpie  that  was 
in  my  heart  instead  of  singing,  wailed.  The  feature- 
less shadow — the  apparition  glimpsed  so  many  times 
before,  companioned  my  thoughts  now,  instead  of 
merely  visitmg  them. 

The  house  of  crystal  grew  faint,  withdrew  into 
far-off  mists,  and  in  the  times  when  I  divined  its 
outlines,  their  soft  shimmer,  their  opalescent  hues 
were  not  visible;  they  were  harsh;  they  darkened;  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  becoming  a  house  of  iron, 
filled  with  brazen  clangours,  in  which  hurried, 
writhen  phantoms  of  despair  jostled  in  a  drive  of  the 
dead.  Every  night  I  wrote,  slowly,  with  pain  and 
trouble,  sometimes  far  into  the  late  hours;  occasion- 
ally until  the  grey  dawn-light  feebly  struggled  down 
the  shaft.  Grim,  mordant,  bitter,  hopeless  themes — 
hard,  bleak,  iron  words. 

I  did  not  try  to  sell  these  stories;  I  had  no  further 
hope  of  that  kind.  They  were  written  because — ^be- 
cause I  had  to  write  them,  even  if  I  had  been  the 
one  man  in  the  world  who  could  read. 

And  while  I  was  in  the  full  swing  of  my  night 
work,  a  change  came  into  my  life.  The  manager  of 
the  store  had  been  watching  me;  saw  that  I  worked 
hard ;  saw  that  I  was  not  one  of  the  mob  of  hopelessly 
inefficient;  and  one  day,  to  my  amazement  I  was 
made  floor-walker  in  one  of  the  smaller  departments, 
where  twenty  girls  (girls  from  sixteen  to  sixty  years 
old)  sold  tinware  and  kitchen  utensils.  My  wages 
were  increased  to  twelve  dollars  a  week;  the  manager 


The  House  of  Iron  49 

told  me  that  if  I  made  good  I  should  be  given  a 
better  position;  that,  in  time,  if  I  should  prove  a 
capable,  faithful,  and  industrious  employe,  I  might 
be  made  the  manager  of  one  of  the  firm's  many 
stores. 

But  I  was  never  so  employed.  Perhaps  it  was 
mere  chance  that  intervened.  Or  could  it  have  been 
that  the  architect  of  the  house  of  iron;  the  artist  who 
played  upon  the  stretched  strings  of  my  heart — that 
force  beyond  me  that  had  breathed  into  the  tormented 
brain  its  mystic  plans,  which  had  reached  out  for  a 
new  builder,  another  maker  of  things — felt  now  that 
its  apprentice  had  served  enough  time  in  bondage  in 
this  place? 

One  day  I  went  to  the  Common  to  eat  my  lunch, 
and  sat  there  on  the  bench  on  the  Park  Street  Mall — 
those  benches  of  the  unshaven,  the  benches  of  the  im- 
employed;  where  loafed  the  drifting  members  of  the 
unplaced,  the  nondescript,  the  ineflBcient,  the  purely 
unfortunate, — the  anonymous  mob  from  which  my 
fellow  helots  were  recruited  and  into  which  they  so 
quickly  fell  back.  After  eating  my  sandwiches, 
languidly — for  of  late  I  had  had  no  appetite;  I  had 
been  languishing  in  queer  fits  of  depression,  of  fever, 
and  of  listlessness — I  idly  picked  from  the  ground 
a  wind-blown  newspaper,  several  days  old,  and 
glanced  over  it  absently.  Suddenly  my  eyes  light- 
ened; I  read  with  interest,  with  growing  excitement, 
at  last,  absorbedly,  the  contents  of  a  coliunn  on  the 
back  page.  There  were  quotations  from  poets  new  to 
me;  a  short  story  translated  from  the  French;  a 
nmnber  of  witty,  spirited  paragraphs  written  in  a 
singularly  lucid  and  musical  prose. 


50  The  High  Romance 

Philip  Hale,  in  the  Boston  Journal,  and  his  daily 
column,  "Talk  of  the  Day!" 

I  had  been  deeply — though  for  years  uncritically, 
uncomprehendingly,  disappointed  in  American  cur- 
rent literature.  There  was  so  little  artistry  in  the 
fiction;  so  obvious  a  lack  of  style,  force,  originality, 
beauty.  How  indifferently  the  magazines  compared 
with  Henley's  New  Review,  for  example,  to  which  I 
was  devoted  when  Wells,  and  Charles  Whibley  and 
Joseph  Conrad  and  Max  Beerbohm  and  W.  B.  Yeats, 
and  others  of  that  great  group  of  writers  were  appear- 
ing with  the  first  fruits  of  the  modem  movements! 

Of  course,  there  were  exceptions.  There  was 
Stephen  Crane,  for  example,  among  writers,  and 
Frank  Norris.  There  was  the  Chap  Book  and  the 
Lark,  among  periodicals;  a  few  spirits  here  and  there 
refusing  to  yield  to  the  curse  of  commercialism,  the 
malediction  of  Mammon,  which  is  the  blight  of 
American  magazines — of  most  English  ones,  too,  for 
that  matter.  And  now  I  had  made  this  great  dis- 
covery, in  this  wind-blown  newspaper! 

How  eagerly  I  devoured  it,  this  food  my  nature 
craved,  this  food  that  stimulated  and  refined  my 
appetite  for  art,  and  nourished  my  soul! 

I  am  not  by  any  means  singular  in  my  admiring 
opinion  of  Mr.  Hale's  artistry,  my  appreciation  of 
his  splendidly  lucid,  colourful  and  musical  prose 
style,  and  of  his  vital,  illuminating  wit  and  irony; 
and  those  who  are  competent  to  judge  also  speak 
wonderingly  of  his  vast  erudition.  I  know  that  he 
has  been  of  far-reaching  and  inspiring  influence, 
especially  among  young  writers;  and  if  ever  I  do 
good  work  I  shall  know  who  helped  me  most  to  do 


The  House  of  Iron  51 

it.  Every  day  thereafter  I  bought  this  newspaper; 
and  at  the  end  of  the  week,  I  sent  one  of  my  stories, 
anonymously,  to  the  editor  of  the  column. 

It  was  printed  the  next  morning!  I  read  it  on 
the  car  while  hanging  to  a  strap,  amid  my  fellow- 
workers. 

What  a  moment!  Something  thrilled  within  me, 
to  the  very  core  of  my  being;  in  the  depths  of  my 
nature  something  stirred,  erecting  itself.  It  seemed 
to  stand  firmly  amid  all  the  doubts,  the  darkness,  the 
uncertainties,  upright  and  indestructible,  the  centre 
of  all  things;  something  that  dominated — like  the 
letter  I  in  a  medley  of  letters,  around  which  the  others 
may  be  grouped  or  marshalled;  like  I  prefixed  to 
the  letters  c-a-n — d-o;  or  to  the  letters  W-i-1-1;  I  can 
do!  I  will!  I  had  accomplished  something,  a  deed 
akin  to  what  I  desired  to  do;  I  had  planted  a  seed  of 
will,  and  a  flower  had  sprung  from  the  soil  of  cir- 
cumstances. This  being  so,  on  this  highway  I  would 
travel,  and  the  future  opened  before  me  in  a  flash, 
like  a  landscape  seen  by  lightning  at  night.  .  .  . 

4.  The  Red  Hieroglyphic 

But  the  manager  said  to  me,  "I'm  sorry;  I  shall 
have  to  take  you  from  your  present  position;  you  are 
far  too  easy  with  the  girls;  they  are  becoming  de- 
moralized in  your  room — Oh,  yes;  you  may  return 
to  your  old  place." 

And  I  returned,  at  the  smaller  wage,  to  toil  amid 
the  slaves  of  the  gang;  under  the  flaring  arc-lights  en- 
circled by  hectic  haloes  as  they  hissed  in  the  dark, 
dust-laden  air,  that  was  like  unto  prismatic  scum  on 


52  The  High  Romance 

the  surface  of  a  stagnant  pool;  amid  the  smell,  acrid 
and  powerful,  of  damp  straw,  of  rats,  of  sweat,  of 
tobacco  juice,  of  gin  and  whiskey,  of  steam,  and  gas, 
and  coal  fumes. 

Yet  even  there  joy  entered  my  heart.  Twice  a 
week  or  so  throughout  the  summer  months  a  story  of 
mine  was  printed  in  the  newspaper. 

Once  or  twice,  too,  letters  appeared,  commenting  on 
some  particular  tale.  Also,  I  sent  a  poem  to  the 
Transcript,  and  one  day  two  copies  of  that  great  paper 
came  to  my  tenement,  copies  containing  my  poem !  I 
carried  the  clippings  in  my  pocket,  and  oftentimes  I 
would  take  them  out,  and  read — as  a  dram-drinker 
steals  to  his  bottle.  .  .  . 

— The  weakness  that  had  come  upon  me  in  the 
spring  increased. 

By  night  I  would  sweat  and  cough. 

At  last,  one  night,  in  the  depth  of  winter,  some- 
thing clicked  in  my  throat;  my  mouth  filled  with  a 
peculiar  taste;  I  got  up,  lighted  a  lamp, — and  the 
something  was  red ;  a  scarlet  hieroglyphic  of  ominous 
portent  was  scrawled  upon  my  handkerchief — and  it 
dampened,  and  it  spread.  ... 

Through  the  rest  of  the  dark  hours  I  was  un- 
troubled by  cough  or  restlessness.  Wrapped  in 
singular,  imperturbable  calm,  I  lay  sleepless;  and  my 
room-mate  was  the  Shadow,  faceless  as  ever;  but  I 
was  sure  that  if  its  countenance  were  visible  it  would 
show  a  smile.  .  .  . 

The  next  day  I  lost  my  wages  of  a  dollar  and  a 
quarter  by  not  showing  up  at  my  job.     Instead,  I 


The  House  of  Iron  53 

went  to  the  City  Hospital;  where,  after  hours  of  wait- 
ing, I  at  last  found  myself  stripped  to  the  waist,  taking 
my  turn  to  be  examined  between  an  old  negro  and 
a  giant  of  a  Norwegian  sailor,  both  of  them  coughing 
like  machines,  while  two  physicians  went  over  us 
with  a  stethoscope,  and  with  their  questions  and  their 
eyes.  I  did  not  mind  their  stethoscope,  but  their  cold, 
calm,  searching  eyes  afflicted  me  with  a  gnawing  fear 
I  had  much  difficulty  in  concealing. 

"You  may  dress,"  one  told  me.  I  obeyed.  Then 
they  weighed  me.  Nothing  more  was  said  until  I 
mustered  courage  enough  to  address  the  chief  of  the 
two  physicians. 

"Ah,  do  you  think,  doctor — do  you  think — ^that 
blood — ^was  it — ^was  it — " 

"Yes;  it  was  from  your  lungs,"  he  said — 

I  felt  a  shock  like  a  blow  struck,  ridiculously 
enough,  as  even  then  it  seemed  to  me,  in  the  pit  of 
my  stomach,  instead  of  my  heart  (I  was  not  aware 
of  the  existence  of  one's  solar  plexus  in  those  days!) ; 
a  blow  that  dizzied  me,  and  for  a  moment  all  sounds 
seemed  far  away,  and  the  persons  around  me  dim 
and  distant;  but  I  gulped  at  the  water  held  to  my 
lips,  and  said,  "Thank  you,  doctor,  for  your  advice," 
when  I  was  told  that  I  must  leave  my  employment  and 
go  somewhere  and  live  in  the  open  air.  I  left  the 
hospital  holding  a  card  in  my  hand,  which  I  did  not 
look  at  until  I  reached  the  street.  Then  I  read  the 
top  line,  printed  in  large  letters  "ADVICE  TO  CON- 
SUMPTIVE PATIENTS";  and  suddenly  I  began  to 
run — I  ran  as  fast  as  I  could,  as  though  I  could  thus 
escape  the  Pallid  One,  the  Infector  of  Crowds,  the 
White  Plague  of  America. 


54  The  High  Romance 

5.  Friendship  Again 

This  happening,  at  any  rate,  released  me  from  one 
captivity,  even  if  it  placed  me  in  another  form  of 
bondage.  They  let  me  go  from  the  sub-cellar;  I  had 
grown  too  weak  for  that  job. 

And  then,  one  afternoon,  I  carried  into  execution 
a  thought  which  had  long  been  in  my  mind,  and  kept 
putting  off,  and  playing  with  day  after  day.  I 
mustered  up  courage  to  call  upon  the  editor  of 
Talk  of  the  Day,  I  had  often  walked  through 
that  block  in  narrow  crooked  Washington  Street  which 
later  I  was  to  know  so  well,  where  the  newspapers 
are  congregated;  and  gazed  at  the  windows  of  the 
Journal^  and  wondered  what  it  was  like,  inside  there. 

But  this  day  I  actually  ventured  inside.  It  was  a 
place  just  like  most  newspaper  quarters,  from  Boston 
to  San  Francisco:  dingy,  dirty,  dim,  and  complicated 
as  to  stairs,  passages,  rooms. 

But  finally  I  got  to  the  editorial  offices.  I  enquired 
for  Mr.  Hale. 

"Who  is  it  wants  to  see  him,"  asked  the  Cerberus 
at  the  door;  the  usual  supercilious  office  boy. 

"Tell  him  it  is  the  Quietist,"  I  said. 

This  was  the  name  I  signed  to  my  tales  and 
sketches.  Somewhere  or  other  I  had  read  a  para- 
graph about  "Molinos  the  Quietist,"  and  the  name 
and  ambiguous  title  (for  I  had  then  not  the  remotest 
notion  of  who  Molinos  really  was,  or  what  Quietism 
could  be)  pleased  me,  and  I  adopted  them  as  my 
pseudonym. 

A  man  who  seemed  to  me  to  be  about  nine  feet  high 
(he  actually  was  no  taller  than  myself),  came  to  the 


The  House  of  Iron  55 

door,  and  I  knew  (because  he  loomed  so  gigantically) 
that  this  was  Philip  Hale! 

"Are  you  the  Quietist?"  he  demanded. 

I  nodded.     I  cannot  remember  if  I  spoke. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  exclaimed.  "And  I  thought  you 
were  an  old  man,  with  solemn  whiskers,  who  had 
been  everywhere,  and  seen  everything.  Come  in! 
Come  in." 

So  began  our  acquaintance.  He  soon  extracted  my 
story.  And  then  my  stories  began  to  be  paid  for: 
out  of  his  own  pocket,  I  afterwards  discovered,  as  the 
Journal  did  not  pay  for  outside  contributions  to  this 
column. 

Later  on,  he  introduced  me  to  Mr.  Edward  William 
Thompson,  then  connected  with  the  Youth's  Com- 
panion; and  Mr.  Thompson  tried  his  kindest  best  to 
help  me  shape  my  peculiar  craftsmanship  so  that  I 
could  earn  some  money  through  it;  and,  indeed,  I 
did  succeed  in  writing  a  number  of  stories  and  verses 
which  the  Youth's  Companion  bought. 

But  my  health  was  steadily  declining,  I  had 
hemorrhage  after  hemorrhage;  and  Mr.  Thompson 
and  Mr.  Hale  got  up  a  small  subscription  fund,  and 
saved  my  life  by  enabling  me  to  leave  Boston  and  go 
to  North  Carolina.  ... 

And  these  good  friends  did  more  than  that.  They 
gave  me  something,  at  least,  of  what  I  longed  for — 
that  which  a  man  will  travel  the  wild  world  over  to 
find — appreciation  of  his  work;  the  fellowship  of  his 
peculiar  kind,  insofar  as  it  might  be  extended  by 
veterans  of  the  pen  to  a  raw  and  most  crude  beginner. 


56  The  High  Romance 

— Years  later,  when  I  collected  my  Quietist  tales 
in  a  volume,  and  Bliss  Carman  tried  to  make  a  cer- 
tain firm  of  publishers  live  up  to  a  promise  to  pub- 
lish them  (which  they  did  not)  I  made  a  slight  sign 
of  my  gratitude  to  Mr.  Hale  by  dedicating  the  book 
to  him.  But  the  publishers  would  not  publish  it: 
they  said  it  was  too  morbid  and  unhappy.  So  I 
dedicated,  instead,  my  son  to  Philip  Hale;  giving  him 
the  name  of  his  father's  friend.  There  is  nothing 
morbid  or  unhappy  about  this  latter  offspring,  any- 
how! 


6.  I  Go  South 

I  went  by  boat  to  Norfolk,  Virginia,  and  thence 
to  North  Carolina.  That  journey  was  a  joyful  ad- 
venture, in  spite  of  my  weakness. 

The  great  sea  took  me  back  to  its  bosom,  for  a 
space,  and  whispered  the  old,  soothing  stories;  and 
the  brooding  pine-wood  received  me  as  its  neophyte. 

Again  the  stars  shone  in  high,  arching  domes;  once 
more  the  sun  poured  out  the  wine  of  life,  and  the 
moon  distilled  the  ichor  of  dreams;  the  flowers  grew 
for  me;  the  wind  talked  to  me,  in  the  trees,  in  the 
grass,  in  the  bush,  voices  of  the  vaster  life  that  moves 
in  the  forms  of  men  and  women. 

And  all  the  men  and  women,  the  soldiers,  the 
tramps,  the  floor-walkers,  the  shop-girls,  the  business 
men,  now  moved  as  they  had  not  moved  before — 
humanly,  individually;  not  as  mere  puppets  of  a 
sardonic  Shadow;  and  I  saw  them  in  the  light  that 


The  House  of  Iron  57 

had  shone  upon  me  out  of  the  heart  of  my  friends 
— the  light  of  human  kindness. 

Ah,  where  should  I  be  were  it  not  for  the  kindness 
of  men  and  women  upon  whom  I  had  no  claim  save 
that  I  was  poor,  and  they  gave  me  to  eat  and  drink; 
and  fallen,  and  they  raised  me  up ;  and  sick,  and  they 
came  to  my  assistance? 

Long  ago,  an  impotent  failure,  I  should  have 
yielded  utterly  to  the  waiting  Shadow,  and  the  House 
of  Iron  would  have  shut  its  door  upon  me  for  ever. 

Friendship — kindness — mutual  aid! 

These  carried  me  out  of  the  sub-cellar,  away  for 
ever  from  the  toilers  and  the  moilers;  but  I  knew 
they  were  still  my  brothers  and  my  sisters.  I  saw 
that  they  were  doing  as  I  had  done — ^toiling  for  the 
use  of  the  life  that  was  in  them,  as  the  conditions  of 
the  world  imposed;  toiling  in  those  ways  because 
they  must,  as  perhaps  they  would  not  if  in  them 
spoke  as  clearly  as  in  me  the  call  to  their  real  work 
— to  the  work  in  which  there  is  joy.  And  upon  me, 
too,  again  might  come  captivity  unto  bitter,  unlovable 
tasks.  Well,  if  so  I  must  not  moil  blindly  as 
before.  Death,  the  seeming  enemy,  had  proved 
my  friend — ^had  been  my  rescuer;  had  inspired  the 
necessity  of  the  struggle  for  life.  Whatever  hap- 
pened to  me  in  the  future,  I  was  and  should  remain, 
free,  because  my  soul  was  free.  In  the  midst  of  all 
the  doubts,  darkness,  and  uncertainties  that  sur- 
rounded me,  there  was  something  to  which  I  could 
rally — there  was  myself;  and  there  were  others.  I 
was  not  alone  any  longer.  And  if  I  had  been  helped, 
so  also  might  I  help. 


58  The  High  Romance 

Assured  of  my  function  I  knew  myself  to  be  one 
of  the  many  builders  of  the  crystal  house,  which  the 
house  of  iron  vainly  tries  to  hide;  the  house  of  life; 
buih  of  its  sorrows  and  joys;  the  abode  of  the  dreams 
of  men;  and  even  if  death  claimed  me  at  my  labour, 
some  other  builder  would  make  out  of  my  doom 
something  of  beauty  for  the  tabernacle  of  man's  far 
vision — ^would  shape  a  storied  window — or,  perhaps, 
place  a  column  in  its  court;  a  memorial  appropriate 
and  inspiring — erect  and  dominating,  like  the  letter  I. 


CHAPTER  III 

SHAPES   OF   DEATH 

THIS  flight  southward  was  my  last  encounter  with 
my  shadowy  adversary — or  my  Friend  (I  knew 
not  which)  during  this  first  period  of  my  boyhood 
and  my  youth;  a  period  which  was  only  the  prelude 
to  fardier  and  stranger  adventures,  and  deeper,  and 
higher  romance;  but  during  my  stay  in  North  Caro- 
lina I  was  placed  in  a  position  of  intimacy  with  the 
Shadowy  Watcher. 

Not  for  a  long  time  yet,  however,  was  I  to  learn 
anything  more  than  the  outer,  surface  aspects  of  my 
ambiguous  companion. 

I  have  already  spoken  of  my  emotions  when  the 
scarlet  hieroglyphic  announced  the  coming  of  the 
white  plague  upon  me;  and  so  I  will  merely  repeat 
that  to  the  best  of  my  recollection,  my  feelings  could 
be  summed  up  in  the  word  "indifference."  At  least, 
consciously  I  was  indifferent,  although  it  is  obvious 
that  subconsciously  I  was  not;  for  I  made  decided 
efforts  to  escape  the  doom  that  was  threatened. 
What  I  mean  is,  that  in  the  face  of  the  actual  prob- 
ability that  I  might  fail  in  my  fight,  I  seemed  un- 
moved, and  uncaring.  I  have  often  asked  myself 
why  this  was  so;  why  I,  who  vibrate  to  life  deeply 
and  continually  in  so  many  directions,  should  have 
felt  that  cold  carelessness  in  the  face  of  death.     Per- 

69 


60  The  High  Romance 

haps  it  was  because  life  at  that  time  held  little  of  joy; 
there  was  nothing  in  Boston  or  my  Boston  life  that 
gave  me  abiding  satisfaction,  or  seemed  worth  while 
living  for.  Any  one  who  had  to  work  as  I  worked, 
and  where  I  worked,  certainly  could  have  little  reason 
for  regretting  leaving  it  even  by  the  last  door  of 
all. 


The  little  town  where  I  lived  in  the  South  was  a 
town  of  death.  Nearly  every  day  in  the  busy  season, 
the  winter  months,  when  the  hotels  and  the  boarding 
houses  were  crowded  with  victims  of  tuberculosis,  was 
marked  by  a  death.  The  train  that  passed  through 
at  midnight  for  the  north  was  popularly  known  as 
"the  stiffs'  express,"  since  it  rarely  happened  that 
when  it  stopped  a  long  box  was  not  lifted  into  the  ex- 
press car.  Men  and  women  would  come  to  this  town 
who  were  beyond  all  hope  of  being  saved;  having 
simply  been  ordered  south  by  some  physician  who 
wished  to  get  rid  of  them.  It  was  pitiable  beyond 
words;  and  ugly  beyond  painting.  And  of  those  who 
came,  by  far  the  most  were  utterly  ignorant  of  what  to 
do  to  be  saved.  They  seemed  to  consider  that  there 
was,  or  that  there  ought  to  be,  some  miraculous  or 
magical  quality  in  the  mere  "climate"  of  the  place 
which  would  save  them,  or  which  ought  to  save  them, 
without  the  necessity  on  their  part  of  doing  anything  at 
all.  And  so  they  would  stay  indoors,  and  the  men 
would  haunt  the  billiard  rooms  and  bowling  alleys 
amid  the  dust  and  tobacco  smoke,  and  the  women, 
all  those  that  were  able,  would  exert  themselves  danc- 
ing in  airless,  dusty  rooms  at  the  hotels,  or  sit  up 


Shapes  of  Death  61 

late  at  card  parties,  and  when  the  coughing,  and 
the  sweating,  and  the  wasting  away  of  tissue  and  of 
flesh  did  not  stop,  but  continued,  then  the  querulous 
complainings  would  arise  on  all  sides,  "I  don't  think 
much  of  the  climate  of  this  place — it's  a  fake!" 
To  back  up  the  supposed  magical  quality  of  the 
"climate,"  the  only  thing  the  most  of  these  exiles 
from  life  would  do  was  to  swill  enormous  quantities 
of  various  deadly  drugs.  The  odours  of  creosote  and 
of  whiskey  were  at  all  times  strong.  They  dosed 
themselves,  and  gargled  themselves,  and  thrust  their 
noses  into  evil  smelling  clouds  of  smoke  supposed 
to  be  a  cure  for  asthma;  but  they  did  not  sleep 
in  the  open  air,  they  did  not  live  in  the  open  air; 
and  so,  of  course,  they  died.  And  the  house  and  the 
rooms  they  died  in  were  haunted;  they  left  their  dis- 
ease behind  them;  there  is  no  doubt  in  the  world  that 
many  a  weak  person  coming  to  this  town  from  the 
north  was  infected  with  disease  from  the  germs  left 
behind  by  the  dead.  The  consumptives  crawled  or 
stalked  through  the  streets,  or  sat  around  the  post- 
office,  or  the  bowling  alleys,  or  on  the  verandas  of 
the  hotels;  and  constantly  they  hawked  and  they 
spat.  Of  all  the  knowledge  which  modem  science 
and  progressive  human  experience  has  placed  at  the 
disposal  of  the  sufferers  from  the  worst  of  all  Ameri- 
can diseases,  there  was  apparent  in  this  place  but 
the  merest  shadow.  Here  and  there  you  found  a 
physician  or  a  patient  who  had  some  idea  of  the 
value  of  open  air;  but  the  rest  seemed  to  fear  it  as 
they  feared  the  white  plague  itself.  They  talked  of 
"Draughts,"  and  "chills,"  and  "breezes,"  and  "night 
air,"  ^s  if  they  were  talking  of  assassins  concealed 


62  The  High  Romance 

everywhere  about  their  path  awaiting  the  fitting 
moment  to  assault  them.  And  so,  as  I  say,  they  died; 
they  died;  and  the  midnight  train  was  "the  stiffs' 
express."  And  as  this  town  was,  so  are  hundreds  of 
others  of  such  places  throughout  the  land.  It  must 
not  be  supposed  that  the  truth  which  is  established  to- 
day, that  in  the  air  is  life  for  the  consumptive,  has 
by  any  means  been  recognized  in  any  widespread 
fashion. 


The  town  was  too  horrible  (and  too  expensive)  and 
after  a  while  I  went  to  live  in  a  one-roomed  shack 
a  mile  or  so  from  the  town,  directly  opposite  a  board- 
ing house  where  a  number  of  poor  labourers  lived. 
Not  far  away,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  there 
was  a  ramshackle  box  factory.  One  morning  I  was 
thrown  out  of  my  bed  by  some  concussion,  or  shock, 
the  cause  of  which  I  knew  not.  Bewildered,  I  ran 
to  the  window,  and  looking  out,  saw  some  people 
running  across  a  field;  and  was  impressed  at  once 
by  the  strange  aspect  of  the  landscape.  Just  what 
lent  this  air  of  strangeness  to  the  view,  I  could  not 
at  first  determine;  until  all  at  once  it  ran  across  my 
mind  with  a  shock,  "Why,  the  tall  chimney  of  the 
box  factory  is  down!"  I  hurried  into  my  clothes, 
and  ran  along  the  road.  The  box  factory  was  in 
ruins.  The  boiler  had  exploded,  they  had  hauled 
one  dead  man  out  of  the  wreck  of  splintered  and 
shattered  boards  and  bricks,  and  now  they  were 
digging  amid  the  wreckage  to  get  out  another  man 
who  was  groaning.  These  two  men  were  the  engineer 
and  his  fireman.     If  the  explosion  had  occurred  half 


Shapes  of  Death  63 

an  hour  later,  some  thirty  or  forty  girls  and  boys 
would  have  been  blown  up  along  with  the  building. 
As  I  got  up  to  the  place  they  had  found  the  groaning 
man,  and  I  helped  to  carry  him  to  the  boarding  house, 
where  he  had  lived.  By  and  by  the  doctor  came,  a 
little  German  Jew,  who  was  a  consumptive  himself, 
and  a  man  of  quite  extraordinary  ability;  but  of 
morals  that  made  him  the  abhorrence  of  the  com- 
munity. He  and  I  always  got  along  very  well,  how- 
ever, since  his  "housekeeper"  and  his  brandy 
debauches  meant  little  that  was  abhorrent  to  me.  He 
pounced  upon  me  at  once  to  help  him;  and  he  had 
a  tough  job  on  hand,  there  was  no  doubt  of  that. 
The  injured  man  had  swallowed  steam;  he  was  a 
tremendously  powerful  young  man,  and  he  was 
thrashing  about  the  bed  in  an  agony.  The  people  in 
the  house  were  useless  with  bewilderment  and  excite- 
ment. I  had  to  help  the  doctor  while  he  examined 
the  man ;  but  we  had  to  call  upon  the  others  to  assist 
us.  It  took  five  or  six  of  us  to  hold  the  man  down 
upon  the  bed.  The  doctor  said  there  was  no  hope 
for  him,  that  he  would  probably  die  in  an  hour  or 
two.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  lived  for  twenty  hours; 
and  even  the  continual  administration  of  morphine, 
could  not  keep  him  quiet.  I  was  with  him  from  the 
time  he  was  brought  into  the  house  until  the  time 
he  died,  since  I  was  the  only  person  in  the  neighbour- 
hood who  did  not  have  to  work,  and  so  I  remained, 
at  my  friend  the  doctor's  advice,  to  be  of  what  service 
I  could.  There  was  not  a  clean  towel,  nor  a  piece 
of  decent  linen  in  that  poor  house;  so  I  brought  over 
from  my  shack  one  of  my  night  shirts  to  put  on  the 
sufferer  and  some  other  articles  of  the  kind.     Dur- 


64  The  High  Romance 

ing  the  day,  there  was  little  for  me  to  do,  but  assist 
about  the  bedside;  but  through  the  night  that  followed, 
I  was  alone  most  of  the  time,  and  that  night  was 
hideous. 

The  young  man's  parents  had  been  sent  for  and 
might  come  at  any  time.  Every  time  I  heard  a  step 
without,  or  whenever  the  door  was  opened,  I  expected 
to  see  a  sorrowful,  poor  mother,  and  the  father. 
The  thought  of  the  father  did  not  disturb  me  very 
much;  but  the  notion  of  meeting  the  mother  of  this 
tortured  creature  on  the  bed  made  me  flinch  every 
time  it  came  to  me.  He  was  a  dreadful  sight ;  burned, 
and  scarred,  blackened,  and  blood-bedabbled. 

All  night  long  he  tossed  in  delirium,  moaning,  and 
his  lungs  rattled  every  time  he  breathed;  and  only 
once  during  the  night  did  he  seem  to  have  a  gleam 
of  consciousness;  and  that  time  he  looked  at  me  and 
said  my  name.  The  utterance  of  my  name  frightened 
me.  I  remembered  how  I  jumped  and  stared  at  him, 
inwardly  trembling.  I  had  never  seen  a  man  die; 
except  that  one  man  who  dropped  dead  in  the  street 
when  I  was  a  child;  I  had  never  watched  or  waited 
by  the  bedside  of  one  dying;  I  had  never  felt  life 
go  out  of  a  human  body.  This  was  now  my  experi- 
ence, for  shortly  after  dawn,  when  a  dim,  wan  light 
struggled  into  the  room,  making  the  red  glow  of  the 
oil  lamp  seem  sickly  and  morbid,  a  strange  change 
came  over  the  aspect  of  the  boy — ^he  was  no  more 
than  a  boy  in  years,  for  all  his  huge  size  and  terrible 
strength.  Although  no  amount  of  washing  had 
availed  to  remove  the  black  stains  etched  upon  the 
flesh  of  his  face  by  the  fire  and  explosion,  yet  now 
a  perceptible  pallor  spread  over  it  under  the  veil  of 


Shapes  of  Death  65 

the  grime.  I  saw  his  hand  grope  upon  his  breast, 
and  I  took  the  hand  between  my  own;  his  eyes  opened 
and  shut  and  his  mouth  opened  and  shut,  and  then 
I  felt  him  die — the  departing  life  beat  and  trembled 
and  twitched  in  all  the  little  nerves  and  muscles  of  his 
hand,  although  the  hand  itself  no  longer  moved;  but 
all  the  nerves  vibrated  like  piano  strings  when  you 
run  your  fingers  over  them;  a  figure  of  speech  which 
expresses  as  closely  as  I  can  the  actual  movement 
of  the  tendons  of  his  wrist,  but  which  does  not  at 
all  depict  the  singular  emotion  which  this  movement 
communicated  to  me.  For  a  moment  I  felt  as  though 
through  these  twitchings  and  tremblings  he  was  trying 
to  speak  to  me,  to  communicate  some  message;  but  it 
soon  died  away;  the  eyes  and  the  mouth  closed,  then 
the  jaw  dropped,  and  he  was  dead. 

Not  long  afterwards  his  father  came;  it  seemed 
that  his  mother  could  not.  A  little,  humble,  work- 
bent  man,  he  stood  and  looked  a  moment  at  what  was 
on  the  bed ;  and  then  turned  away  without  a  word  and 
without  a  sign.  Then  came  those  who  perform  the 
last  offices  for  the  dead,  and  I,  too,  went  away.  .  .  . 

I  returned  to  my  shack,  and  tried  to  get  some  sleep ; 
but  I  could  not  do  so,  and  all  day  long  I  moved 
about  in  a  state  of  nervous  tension.  That  night  I  at- 
tended a  meeting  of  the  local  "literary  club" — a 
quaint  collection  of  rustic  young  men  and  young 
women  who  went  in  for  "studies"  of  various  authors 
of  the  day.  The  little  town  was  of  course  very  much 
excited  by  the  disaster;  and  I,  as  an  actual  participant 
in  the  scene,  was  greatly  in  demand.  I  had  to  relate 
my  story  so  many  times,  that  at  last  I  began,  almost 


66  The  High  Romance 

unconsciously,  to  embroider  it  with  comments.  The 
fact  that  the  young  man  had  died  in  my  night  shirt 
was  a  circumstance  which  added  a  piquantly  macabre 
touch  to  my  narrative.  I  can  still  remember  the  very 
young  and  silly  kind  of  pleasure  which  I  took  in 
astonishing  the  young  women  who  acted  as  if  they 
were  delightfully  shocked,  by  saying:  "Oh,  well, 
the  poor  fellow  was  an  honest  soul,  and  I  am  sure  he 
will  return  that  night  dress  of  mine  when  he  is  through 
with  it.  He  cannot  need  it  where  he  is  going,  you 
know,  for  I  don't  believe  they  wear  them  up  above, 
and  down  below  the  climate  does  not  permit  of  the 
indulgence."  I  stayed  at  the  club  until  the  last 
member  left,  for  I  knew  by  the  way  I  felt  that  a  sleep- 
less night  was  before  me ;  but  by  ten  o'clock  the  party 
had  broken  up  and  by  eleven  o'clock  the  last  loiterer 
had  left  the  closet  in  one  of  the  local  hotels  where, 
despite  the  prohibition  laws  of  the  county,  one  could 
get  something  to  drink.  I  still  lingered  talking  with 
the  hotel  keeper,  but  by  twelve  o'clock  I  was  home- 
ward bound.  My  road  lay  along  the  railway  track 
for  a  mile  out  of  town,  and  then  the  shortest  way  to 
my  shack  was  to  plunge  to  my  right  through  the 
grounds  where  the  ruins  of  the  box  factory  were 
strewn  about.  When  I  reached  this  place  I  was  sud- 
denly seized  upon  by  one  of  those  unaccountable 
gusts  of  atavistic  superstition  that  at  times  seize 
upon  us  all.  I  simply  loathed  the  notion  of  passing 
through  the  wreckage  of  that  mill.  My  flesh  shrank 
from  the  ordeal,  as  though  grimy  fingers  of  spectres 
were  reaching  out  to  touch  it.  And  a  grimly  whimsi- 
cal fancy  popped  into  my  head,  and  tormented  me  as 
many  grave  reasons  for  real  fear  have  not  done: 


Shapes  of  Death  67 

"Suppose  he  is  really  waiting  for  me,  somewhere 
among  the  shadows,  with  that  night  dress?"  And  I 
seemed  to  see  the  pallor  of  that  piece  of  linen  in  every 
patch  of  light  among  the  scattered  fragments  of  the 
factory.  To  go  roundabout  the  factory  grounds 
would  have  taken  me  off  my  course  several  hundred 
yards;  and  rather  than  give  in  to  my  fit  of  super- 
stitious trembling,  I  braced  myself  and  pushed 
across  the  grounds. 

I  reached  my  shack  and  unlocked  the  door,  and 
entered,  and  struck  a  match  to  light  my  lamp — and 
the  next  instant  I  had  started  back  against  the  wall, 
transfixed,  and  quivering  with  horror.  There  before 
me,  in  the  red  flare  of  the  match,  I  saw — sure  enough! 
I  saw  my  night  shirt.  It  had  been  returned.  It  had 
come  back!  And  I  felt  certain  that  the  one  I  loaned 
it  to  must  also  be  present.  Only  by  a  powerful 
effort  of  will  was  I  able  to  steady  myself  and  refrain 
from  rushing  blindly  out  of  the  shack. 

Once  I  had  lighted  my  lantern,  however,  it  was 
certain  that  to  outward  vision,  at  any  rate,  the  dead 
man  was  not  present.  Hanging  over  the  foot  of  the 
bed  was  the  night  gown,  however. 

As  I  afterwards  discovered,  the  poor  woman  who 
kept  the  boarding  house  had  taken  the  night  shirt  from 
the  comer  where  it  had  been  thrown  by  the  under- 
taker; and  had  washed  and  ironed  it  out,  and  then 
had  brought  it  to  my  shack,  reaching  in  through  the 
window,  which  was  never  locked,  and  placing  it  upon 
the  bed,  to  be  ready  for  me  when  I  required  it.  Her 
thrifty  soul  objected  to  wasting  a  perfectly  good 
garment.  .  .  . 


68  The  High  Romance 

When  I  went  north  again  with  the  hole  in  my  lungs 
temporarily  stopped  up,  I  drifted  into  newspaper 
work  as  a  reporter;  and  thereafter  I  had  many  deal- 
ings with  the  shadow;  indeed,  I  became,  as  most  news- 
paper reporters  are,  one  of  his  busy  chroniclers. 
Suicides  .  .  .  murders  .  .  .  wrecks  ...  fires  .  .  . 
accidents,  of  many  sorts;  how  many  volumes  would 
my  newspaper  accounts  of  these  make  up,  I  wonder? 
A  shelf  full  at  least. 

At  night,  in  a  crowded  and  mephitic  courtroom, 
watching  curiously  a  handcuffed  man  while  he  stands 
up  at  the  bidding  of  the  clerk  of  the  court:  "Look 
upon  the  jury!  Jury  look  upon  the  prisoner!  Do 
you  find  him  guilty  or  not  guilty?" 

"Guilty,"  says  the  foreman;  and  a  growl  of  voices 
rumbles  through  the  room — a  man  has  been  con- 
demned to  death  by  his  f ellowmen  for  the  slaying  of 
another.  Everybody  feasts  morbidly  upon  the  sight 
of  the  man  who  is  to  be  hanged  by  the  neck.  .  .  . 
Thrice  have  I  witnessed  such  a  scene,  in  Boston  or 
New  York,  and  once  have  I  heard  the  voice  of  a  mob 
of  ten  thousand  cheer  a  verdict  of  "not  guilty"  in  a 
famous  case.  They  were  cheering  the  escape  from 
death,  not  the  proving  of  innocence. 


And  I  remember  one  horrible  night — ^horrible  in 
the  retrospect,  for  at  the  time  I  was  callous  enough 
— when  I  took  part  in  a  death  watch  in  Charlestown 
jail,  in  Boston.  A  murderer  who  was  to  be  the  first 
victim  of  the  electric  chair  in  Massachusetts  was  dy- 
ing of  consumption;  would  the  doctors  succeed  in 
keeping  him  alive  long  enough  to  go  to  his  man-or- 


Shapes  of  Death  69 

dained  doom,  or  would  the  bacilli  of  tuberculosis 
cheat  the  chair  of  its  prize?  The  time  of  the  elec- 
trocution was  drawing  nigh;  and  the  bacilli  were 
working  hard — how  would  the  contest  result?  It 
was  a  pretty  problem — wonderful  story  for  the  "yel- 
lows." Hundreds  of  thousands  of  readers  were  in- 
terested; the  sheriff's  office  was  thronged  with  report- 
ers from  various  papers  and  news  associations;  and 
we  sent  in  bulletins  by  telephone  to  our  offices,  and 
swapped  stories  and  cigars  with  the  officials,  and 
wondered  if  the  dying  man  would  die  after  our  papers 
had  gone  to  press  and  thus  throw  the  story  to  the 
evening  editions?  It  would  be  a  shabby  trick  on  his 
part,  to  be  sure! 

— And  once,  permitted  to  enter  the  prison  beyond 
the  office,  I  heard  the  doleful,  beastlike,  choking  cry  of 
the  frenzied,  fevered,  fear-tortured,  ignorant  Italian 
peasant  for  whom  the  great  Hoe  presses  stood  waiting, 
and  whom  managing  editors  were  discussing  in  a 
dozen  editorial  offices — his  story  was  selling  papers; 
he  was  a  circulation  booster.    .    .    . 

And  his  horrible  cry  reverberated  through  the  iron 
silences  of  the  house  of  horror;  and  it  tailed  off  into 
a  groaning  cough. 

But  he  lived  to  be  electrocuted ;  the  editors  and  the 
business  managers  being  duly  grateful. 


Serving  many  newspapers,  I  have  known  the 
morgues  of  cities  from  New  York  to  San  Francisco  as 
intimately  as  most  men  know  their  bedrooms;  I  have 
counted  the  shapeless  dead  as  they  were  dragged  out 
from  railroad  wrecks,  or  carried  out  from  a  great 


70  The  High  Romance 

city  hotel  that  had  burned;  I  have  followed  the  hunt 
after  murderers;  and  bent  with  the  coroner,  some- 
times before  the  coroner,  over  the  suicidal  victims  of 
carbolic  acid,  pistol,  knife,  rope,  drownings.  And 
always  my  editor  was  eager  for  the  story  of  it;  he 
sought  zealously  the  reason  for  each  murder,  suicide, 
accident,  but  how  seldom  were  the  real  reasons  even 
hinted  at! 

I  remember  one  good  story  I  found  of  a  death  under 
an  elevator  in  a  department  store.    .    .    * 

But  I  was  young  at  my  trade,  at  the  time,  and  so 
my  error  was  found  excusable  when  I  tried  to  get  my 
story  into  print — a  story  of  culpable  negligence  on 
the  part  of  the  management  of  the  store — a  store  that 
was  a  big  advertiser! 

That  story  was  not  told.  It  was  one  more  of  the 
many  needless  deaths  that  occur  by  the  thousands. 
I  have  heard  coroner's  juries  solemnly  rebuke  rail- 
way companies,  and  newspapers  shriek  for  the  dis- 
trict attorney  to  do  something  after  some  peculiarly 
horrible  wreck;  but  nothing  is  ever  done,  nothing 
really  essential.  .  .  . 

For  nothing  can  be  done  until  the  axe  shall  be  laid 
to  the  root  of  the  tree  that  yields  this  everlasting  crop 
of  needless  and  horrible  deaths — the  tree  of  selfish 
Profit.  Men  and  women  are  killing  each  other  con- 
tinually, by  murder,  disease,  suicide,  or  "accidents," 
that  are  more  truly  crimes,  because  they  will  not  give 
up  selfish  profit-seeking  and  run  trains,  and  do  all 
business,  and  print  newspapers,  not  to  make  money 
for  themselves  at  the  expense  of  others,  but  as  parts  of 
a  loving  service  of  man  by  man.  ... 


Shapes  of  Death  71 

But  if  all  these  truly  unnecessary  shapes  of  death 
were  eliminated,  would  there  still  not  remain  many, 
many  forms  of  painful  and  sudden  and  horrible 
deaths,  cutting  lives  off  from  the  daylight  and  the 
sun,  and  causing  endless  grief  and  pain? 

Yes. 

Then  there  is  a  mystery  here  which  no  human  solu- 
tion of  the  subject  appears  to  reveal? 

It  does  indeed  thus  seem  to  be. 

Yet  I  cannot,  I  do  not,  nor  shall  I  ever  rest,  until  I 
find  aji  answer  to  this  mystery  of  death! 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   YELLOW   GOD 

1.  Grub  Street 

FOR  eighteen  months  I  remained  in  the  south. 
During  the  first  few  months  I  suffered  many 
breakdowns;  but  after  that  my  favourable  environ- 
ment, and  my  youth,  and  the  vigorous  constitution 
which  underlay  the  weakened  organism,  combined  to 
restore  me.  I  earned  my  living  in  a  variety  of  ways. 
For  a  time  I  edited  a  weekly  newspaper  for  an  ab- 
sentee proprietor.  He  returned  unexpectedly  one 
day,  and  found  the  office  occupied  by  a  group  of  jolly 
loafers  who  were  helping  me  to  dispose  of  a  jug  of 
native  wine  sent  as  payment  for  an  advertisement;  as 
other  advertisements  paid  my  board,  and  my  barber- 
ing,  etc.  He  was  properly  shocked  by  this  orgy,  for 
he  was  a  devout  Presbyterian  or  Methodist,  or  some- 
thing; and  we  parted  company. 

Hard  times  followed,  interspersed  with  joy  days 
when  the  very  occasional  checks  for  successful  stories 
came.  I  carried  the  chain  of  a  surveyor's  party 
running  the  line  of  a  projected  railway.  I  picked 
blackberries  in  the  harvest  season,  at  a  penny  a  quart; 
and  in  other  vagabondish  modes  I  managed  to  get 
along. 

I  remember  one  tough  time  when  credit  was  re- 
fused me  at  the  grocery  store.     But  the  milkman  was 

72 


The  Yellow  God  73 

more  patient,  and  continued  to  deliver  a  quart  of  milk 
each  morning.  When  the  embargo  began,  I  had  half 
a  loaf  of  bread  in  my  cupboard,  a  can  of  cocoa,  a 
package  of  cornstarch,  and  a  bag  of  sugar. 

So  I  boiled  a  pot  of  cornstarch,  and  ate  it  with 
milk  and  sugar  and  bread,  and  defied  all  grocers. 
The  second  day  it  occurred  to  me  to  flavour  my  some- 
what savourless  pudding  with  cocoa  and  sugar.  The 
result  was  ravishing.  Brillat-Savarin  himself  could 
not  have  been  prouder  of  his  choicest  culinary  crea- 
tion than  I  of  this  chocolate  pudding! 

By  the  end  of  five  or  six  days  of  cornstarch,  choc- 
olate pudding  and  milk,  I  was  not  so  full  of  gusto. 
In  fact  I  was  not  very  full  of  anything.  When  night 
would  come,  I  walked  to  the  postoffice — to  see  if  any 
relief  had  arrived.  I  kept  away  from  the  streets  by 
day,  ashamed  to  face  my  creditors. 

Then  came  a  check  for  fifty  dollars! 

What  a  meal  I  had,  at  the  local  hotel! 


Yet  in  spite  of  such  hardships,  and  of  even  more 
serious  handicaps;  my  frequent  alcoholic  excesses, 
for  example — my  strength  returned;  and  at  last  I  went 
back  to  Boston,  and  resumed  my  eff^orts  to  gain  a  foot- 
ing as  a  writer. 

It  was  a  difficult  period  for  me,  a  period  of  transi- 
tion and  unsettled  conditions  in  all  ways. 

The  work  which  I  had  done  for  Philip  Hale's  col- 
umn had  been  produced  with  an  almost  complete 
spontaneity.  Ideas,  or,  more  exactly,  moods  which 
expressed  themselves  in  the  form  of  very  brief 
sketches  or  tales — fantastic,  ironic,  mordant  in  tone — 


74  The  High  Romance 

came  to  me  from  I  knew  not  where;  and  I  wrote  them 
down  right  away,  with  few  changes  or  revisions.  Un- 
questionably, they  possessed  literary,  artistic,  merit; 
but  only  by  such  an  editor  as  Philip  Hale  could  they 
find  recognition  or  acceptance. 

With  the  ordinary  publications,  the  magazines  and 
newspapers,  I  was  absolutely  out  of  it  with  this  kind 
of  work.  Many  editors,  it  is  true,  wrote  to  me  prais- 
ing this  or  that,  approving  the  literary  merit  of  my 
work,  the  power  of  its  style,  etc.  But  my  tales  and 
sketches  were  "unhappy,"  or  "morbid,"  or  "unpleas- 
ant"; they  were  therefore  unsalable,  and  I  had  not 
yet  learned  how  to  write  the  commercialized  stories 
which  have  made  our  American  magazines  so  medi- 
ocre and  futile;  in  fact,  I  could  do  very  little  success- 
ful work  of  any  kind  at  that  time,  or  for  years  later,  if 
I  approached  my  subject  consciously. 

In  those  first  years,  however,  in  my  Quietest 
sketches  and  tales,  I  was  (within  my  own  limitations, 
which  were  palpable)  quite  distinctively  an  artist;  a 
maker  of  things  of  beauty  for  beauty's  sake.  I  did 
not  dream  of  writing  for  money  first,  or  success. 

Indeed,  I  was  doubly  out  of  touch  with  the  pre- 
vailing notes  of  American  "literature."  (God  save 
that  word,  which  now  applies  to  railroad  time-tables, 
political  advertising,  real-estate  pamphlets,  as  well  as 
to  the  fine  art  of  poetry  or  prose.)  For  if  there  were 
then  very  few  writers  in  our  country  who  thought  and 
lived  and  worked  in  the  spirit  of  art,  and  fewer  editors 
or  publishers  to  encourage  or  foster  them,  there  were 
on  the  other  hand  plenty  of  writers — and  they  grew 
steadily  in  numbers  and  influence — who  were  strongly 
possessed  by  the  spirit  of  social  service;  writers  who 


The  Yellow  God  75 

considered  their  writing  primarily  from  the  point  of 
view  of  social  criticism  and  re-construction.  And  for 
a  long  time  I  was  also  quite  outside  this  stream  of 
tendency. 

So  I  drifted  along,  baffled  and  ignorant,  bitterly  in 
revolt  against  the  prevailing  conventions;  the  timid 
respectability  of  some  periodicals;  the  crass  vulgarity 
and  cheapness  of  spirit  of  the  greater  number. 

For  a  little  while  I  became  a  literary  hack  for  one 
of  the  most  crude  of  the  popular  magazines;  the  fan- 
tastic "Black  Cat";  rewriting  short  stories,  and  con- 
cocting others;  crazy  tales  of  murder  and  mystery. 

Fortunately  for  my  chances  in  the  struggle  for  exist- 
ence, I  possessed  a  certain  facility  which  while  it 
often  militated  against  good  work,  helped  me  to  pro- 
duce magazine  tales  that  would  sometimes  sell,  though 
not  enough  during  many  years  to  enable  me  to  live 
thereby. 

So  I  naturally  drifted  into  newspaper  work,  for  the 
yellow  press;  going,  in  time  through  the  various 
grades  from  cub  reporter  to  city  editor. 

How  well  I  remember  my  first  assignment!  It 
was  on  a  Sunday,  and  I  was  sent  to  a  negro  church  in 
the  South  End  of  Boston,  where  a  sensational  preacher 
was  expected  to  proclaim  against  the  tyranny  of  the 
white  race. 

I  met  a  fellow  reporter  in  the  frowsy,  malodorous 
conventicle;  a  beginner  like  myself.  But  how  differ- 
ent a  one!  A  Harvard  man,  fastidious  and  refined, 
his  head,  like  mine,  stuffed  with  reading  and  with 
literary  dreams ;  but  not  with  unassimilated  stuff,  and 
with  his  faculties  trained  to  utilize  and  apply  his  read- 
ing and  his  thoughts  and  observations.     I  wonder  if 


76  The  High  Romance 

Walter  Prichard  Eaton  ever  recalls  that  meeting  in  the 
negro  church? 


I  discovered  in  myself  an  ability  to  obtain  and 
write  the  news;  and  somewhat  rapidly  advanced,  until 
I  was  drawing  the  munificent  wages  of  fifteen  dollars 
a  week,  and  was  signing  my  stories  from  time  to 
time.  Also  I  had  found  congenial  associates,  and  in 
the  Cabot  Club,  and  the  Bell-in-Hand,  I  drank  ale  (and 
stronger  stuff)  and  ate  mutton  pies  and  talked  about 
books  and  writing  with  men  of  that  type  which  the 
Press  seems  always  to  attract;  men,  that  is  to  say,  of 
genuine  literary  gifts,  some  of  whom  succeed  in  real- 
izing their  talents,  while  others,  either  too  superficially 
armed  for  the  battle,  or  merely  fascinated  by  the  gla- 
mour of  printer's  ink,  or  else  cursed  with  a  weakness 
for  strong  drink  or  drugs,  merely  sink  through  circle 
after  circle  of  illusion  to  the  gutters,  and  the  Mills 
Hotel,  and  the  morgue.  How  many  of  these  have  I 
not  known  and  companioned  in  Boston,  New  York, 
San  Francisco!  How  many  have  I  not  seen  go 
utterly  down  and  finally  out.  Some  few  were  true 
artists,  no  matter  what  faults  they  possessed.  Others 
were  nothing  but  scallawags.  But  others  were  vic- 
tims. They  were  not  equipped  to  strive  with  mam- 
mon and  to  contend  with  their  fellows  for  the  rewards 
of  the  market  place.  They  were  dreamers  of  the 
beautiful,  searchers  after  the  ideal,  lost  knights  of 
the  grail  quest,  waifs  and  estrays  from  the  paths  of 
the  high  romance — yet  better  men,  brighter  souls, 
warmer  hearts,  by  far,  than  many  of  those  who  go  by 
in  their  motor  cars  as  in  chariots,  dressed  in  the  pinch- 


The  Yellow  God  77 

back  purple  and  the  imitation  fine  linen  of  commercial 
success. 

Is  there  any  branch  of  human  effort  which  has  been 
more  basely  prostituted  to  mammon  than  modem  lit- 
erature? 

Oh,  you  under  dogs  of  Grub  Street,  you  victims  of 
the  press,  you  with  whom  I  drank  deep  and  held  high 
talk — much  futile,  foolish  talk,  I  confess,  but  with 
moments  of  splendour — I  think  that  even  the  tavern 
door  may  open  nearer  to  the  road  of  the  Quest  than 
does  the  door  of  a  bank — and  I  honour  you  more  than 
I  do  the  skillful  writer  who  sells  himself. 


2.  A  Matter  Of  Reticence 

It  was  while  I  was  in  the  midst  of  Bohemia-in- 
Boston  (imagine  the  conflict  of  atmosphere)  that 
something  happened  which  was  of  palmary  conse- 
quence, yet  something  which  is  impossible  for  me 
fully  to  relate,  or  even  adequately  to  estimate  as  to 
its  influence  and  place  in  my  life. 

Which  brings  me  to  a  frank  confession  of  a  failure 
in  my  effort  to  chronicle  my  spiritual  adventures. 
For,  after  all,  I  have  discovered  that  it  is  out  of  the 
question  to  tell  all  your  life  to  others.  There  are 
things  that  belong  too  intimately  to  you  and  to  those 
near  and  dear  to  you  to  be  given  publicity,  no  matter 
how  delicately,  how  discreetly.  There  are  heights 
which  are  too  high  and  depths  too  deep,  to  visit  in 
company  with  others,  when  you  travel,  in  retrospect, 
in  the  country  of  the  soul. 

Yet  when  I  began  this  book,  and  in  many  versions  of 


78  The  High  Romance 

it  which  were  written  before  this  one,  my  plan  was  to 
tell  "all,"  "everything,"  "my  life  just  as  I  lived  it, 
gloomy  or  sad;  yes,  everything.  .  .  ." 

It  can't  be  done. 

Poe  says  the  paper  would  scorch  and  bum  if  one 
really  told  all  his  life.  Maybe  it  would  in  my  case. 
But,  anyhow,  I  have  discovered  rather  late  in  life  that 
there  are  things  that  cannot  be  told;  and  good  things 
are  even  more  difficult  to  divulge  than  bad. 

It  is  for  this  reason  that  I  must  pass  by  the  magic 
and  the  beauty  of  that  summer  when  I  found  at  last 
a  companion  .  .  .  that  summer  when  as  a  "cub"  re- 
porter, receiving  a  salary  of  fifteen  dollars  a  week, 
blankly  unaware  of  the  responsibilities  and  duties  of 
real  life,  I  married.  ... 

"What  a  fool  you  must  have  been,"  do  I  hear  you 
say? 

Yes;  no  doubt  I  was  foolish;  and  the  reasonable 
side  of  my  own  nature  looks  backward,  and  is  full  of 
wonder;  but  for  good  or  for  bad,  prudence  and 
worldly  reason  do  not  rule  me. 

My  heart,  and  my  soul,  look  backward,  and  regard 
the  present,  and  then  smile  into  the  future, — and 
they  rejoice  .  .  .  that  piece  of  "foolishness"  was  to 
be  worth  more  to  me  in  the  end  than  most  of  the  calm 
and  reasoned  actions  of  my  life. 


We  went,  soon  afterwards,  to  New  York,  where  I 
continued  newspaper  work.  \  kept  at  it  for  the  next 
five  or  six  years;  with  intervals  during  which  we  made 
expeditions  into  country  places  where  rent  and  living 
were  cheap  in  order  that  I  might  again,  and  yet  again, 


The  Yellow  God  79 

and  again,  try  to  make  my  way  by  writing  for  the 
magazines. 

Also  I  embarked  with  Bernard  G.  Richards  upon 
a  singular  adventure  which  was  not  very  lucrative  but 
was  surcharged  with  manifold  interest.  I  had  met 
Richards  in  Boston,  at  a  time  when  he  was  voicing  the 
spiritual  life  and  aspirations  of  the  Ghetto  in  those 
wonderful  essays,  "The  Discourses  of  Kiedansky"; 
so  beautifully  written,  so  vibrant  with  intellectual 
power,  and  at  the  same  time  romantic  as  only  litera- 
ture drawn  from  authentic  life  experience  may  be. 
We  formed  a  "Jewish-American  Literary  Bureau." 
Richards  translated  articles  from  Russian  and  Yid- 
dish newspapers  which  I  transposed  into  newspaper 
English  and  sold  to  the  Sunday  Sun  and  other  papers. 
But  most  of  our  "work"  consisted  in  sitting  in  the 
curious  cafes  of  the  East  Side;  and  talking,  talking, 
talking  by  the  hour  with  the  Russian  Jewish  radicals 
whose  intense  intellectual  and  artistic  life  supplies 
such  a  sharp  contrast  to  the  mediocre  and  vulgar 
tastes  of  so  large  a  part  of  our  native  Americans.  It 
was  the  time  when  Jacob  Gordin  was  the  leading  fig- 
ure in  East  Side  drama;  and  when  the  far-reaching 
work  of  the  Russian  Revolution  was  at  its  most  active 
stage  of  propaganda.  For  most  of  one  winter  I  prac- 
tically lived  on  the  East  Side,  and  thus  learned  its 
life  at  first  hand — even  as  I  had  become  acquainted 
with  other  aspects  of  New  York's  singular  pageant 
through  passing  a  year  as  a  reporter  at  the  Mulberry 
Street  police  headquarters,  and  another  year  at  the 
Criminal  Courts,  and  other  years  in  general  work, 
here,  there,  and  everywhere. 

And  from  these  experiences  I  tried  to  extract  mat- 


80  The  High  Romance 

ter  for  my  art.  As  yet,  no  other  or  higher  reason 
for  my  existence  had  begun  to  dawn  upon  my  soul 
than  my  desire  to  transmute  my  life  into  terms  of 
literature. 

But  the  same  conditions  already  described  still  pre- 
vailed: I  sold  quite  a  number  of  machine-made  stories, 
but  not  enough  for  our  support,  and  I  could  not  sell 
the  things  I  considered  to  be  the  products  of  my  art; 
and  more  and  more  I  had  to  labour  at  the  machine 
style  in  fiction.  In  such  labour,  however,  there  is  no 
joy;  in  this  drudgery  there  arises  in  the  heart  and 
soul  no  song;  and  I  cannot  achieve  success  in  work  I 
do  not  love,  in  work  that  does  not  march  forward  to 
the  inward  music  of  the  soul.  And  even  in  my 
sketches,  be  they  as  "grim"  as  the  editors  assure  me 
they  are,  there  was  music  at  their  making, — the  tones 
of  truth. 

But  after  each  effort  to  force  my  work  to  recog- 
nition, I  was  beaten  back;  my  hour  had  not  struck.  I 
was  obliged  to  return  to  the  city  and  go  into  the  har- 
ness of  newspaper  work. 

I  left  the  city,  once  more,  shortly  after  the  birth  of 
the  latter  of  my  two  children,  and  during  that  time  of 
trouble  and  anxiety  I  worked  for  heaven  only  knows 
how  many  hours  daily  and  nightly,  writing  a  book; — 
one  of  the  several  forerunners  of  this  one. 

Then,  still  labouring  frantically,  like  a  man  in  a 
fever-dream,  and  punctuating  my  work  with  coughs, 
I  wrote  a  short  story  and  sent  it  to  a  magazine  editor 
under  an  assumed  name.  I  was  well  nigh  desperate 
of  ever  making  good  under  my  own  name.  A  literary 
agent  told  me  my  case  was  the  most  extraordinary  he 
had  ever  encountered,  in  that  so  many  editors  knew 


The  Yellow  God  81 

my  work,  believed  I  had  talent,  but  felt  that  I 
was  hopeless  for  their  purposes;  some  of  them,  indeed, 
refused  any  longer  even  to  read  my  stuff.  I  was 
considered  incorrigibly  headstrong,  densely  imper- 
vious to  reason.  I  would  not — because  I  could  not 
— take  the  advice  they  showered  upon  me  in  scores 
of  letters  to  write  more  in  accordance  with  conven- 
tional models,  conventional  ideals.  I  persisted,  they 
complained,  in  bothering  them  with  stories  that  were 
"unpleasant,"  or  "unhappy,"  or  "morbid."  They  all 
recognized  power  in  the  handling  of  the  work,  and 
originality  of  ideas  and  themes,  and  literary  merit 
(I  quote  the  editors;)  but  this,  it  seems,  was  not 
enough.  So,  really  afraid  that  I  was  taboo,  I  sent 
in,  as  I  say,  the  new  story  under  a  false  name. 

3.  Red  Hieroglyphic  Again 

— And  one  morning  as  I  was  tramping  through  the 
wet  snow  to  the  post  office  to  see  what  manuscripts  had 
returned,  something  clicked  in  my  throat;  I  tasted  a 
peculiar  taste,  well  known  to  me, — and  I  remember 
stopping  and  staring  at  that  scarlet  hieroglyphic  of 
mine  enemy,  there  on  the  snow,  as  Crusoe  stared  at 
the  footprint.  I  visited  the  doctors.  They  all  told 
the  same  story.  The  old  infected  place  in  my  lungs 
had  healed,  but  there  was  a  new  break;  tuberculosis 
was  upon  me. 

And  just  then  there  came  a  gleam  of  great  hope; 
or  what  would  have  been  a  great  hope,  if  it  had  come 
before  my  breakdown.  The  magazine  accepted  my 
story.  S.  S.  McClure,  its  editor — one  of  the  few 
really  discerning  editors  our  magazine  field  can  show 


82  The  High  Romance 

— himself  wrote  glowing  words  of  praise.  He  sent  a 
check,  and  asked  for  more  work. 

But  for  the  present  I  wrote  no  more  stories.  I  had 
more  important  work.  I  had  my  life  to  fight  for — 
my  life  and  my  family  and  my  art. 

The  check  helped  materially  to  swell  the  meagre 
contents  of  my  war-chest;  for  again  I  was  taking  the 
field,  going  to  the  open,  to  do  battle  with  my  sinister 
and  insidious  foe,  the  shadow;  and  it  is  only  in  the 
field,  in  the  open,  that  one  may  hope  to  overcome 
that  haunter  and  infector  of  crowds,  of  houses,  of 
cities — for  when  he  fights  from  ambuscade  he  always 
wins! 

This  time  I  went  to  Texas.  Since  I  was  obliged  to 
go  somewhere,  why  not  choose  a  new  place,  why  not 
the  sun-drenched  romantic  plains  of  the  great  South- 
West?  So  I  argued,  with  pleasure, — yes,  there  was 
pleasure  for  me  even  in  that  going  forth,  as  there  is 
always  when  I  may  raise  the  song  of  the  Open  Road. 
Zest  of  life  has  never  left  me,  even  at  the  worst  of 
times.  I  say  "y^^"  ^^  li^^  ^^  matter  what  thorns 
may  be  in  the  bed  of  our  espousals;  no  matter  even 
if  death  (her  lean  bully,  according  to  Henley)  is 
lurking  behind  the  door. 

In  San  Antonio,  Texas,  I  bought  a  tent  and  pitched 
it  on  a  hilltop  outside  that  "city  of  the  sun" — where 
for  twenty-nine  days  after  I  arrived  the  sun  was  not 
seen;  where  "northers"  howled  across  the  plains, 
down  from  out  of  Kansas,  and  rain  streamed,  and 
sleet  lashed,  and  ice  formed  morning  after  morning  in 
the  water  pail. 

In  the  lee  of  my  tent,  beneath  the  projecting  fly, 
which  I  had  made  six  feet  longer  than  the  tent  cloth 


The  Yellow  God  83 

itself,  I  set  up  my  bed;  and  nightly  turned  in  with 
all  my  clothes  on  even  to  my  boots  and  hat,  and  with 
my  overcoat  on  top  of  all,  wearing,  at  times,  two 
suits  of  underwear,  and  yet  sometimes  I  was  forced 
to  get  up  and  stamp  about  to  warm  myself.  But 
despite  all  this  I  began  to  improve  in  health;  and 
when  my  Lord  the  Sun  (0  thou  cherisher  of  life!)  at 
last  came  back,  what  an  orgy  of  sun-bathing  did  I 
indulge  in! 

As  spring  advanced  I  sent  for  my  family,  (there 
were  two  children,  now),  and  we  camped  out  together. 
My  health  grew  steadily  better,  and  I  was  able  to  do 
a  good  deal  of  writing,  very  little  of  which,  however, 
I  was  able  to  sell;  and  even  when  you  pay  no  rent 
your  family,  to  say  nothing  about  yourself,  must  eat, 
and  be  clothed ;  and  money  lent  by  a  friend  to  my  wife 
was  all  that  kept  us  going,  then  and  many  times  before 
then,  and  later;  so  as  it  chanced  that  a  railroad  adver- 
tised a  low  rate  to  San  Francisco,  my  wife  and  I 
decided  to  try  our  fortunes  in  that  city,  where  I  once 
more  entered  newspaper  life. 

4.  San  Francisco 

I  had  been  only  a  few  months  in  romantic  and 
lovable  San  Francisco — a  city  most  congenial  to  me 
— when  our  prospects  suddenly  improved;  from  a 
financial  point  of  view,  anyhow. 

Late  one  night,  or,  rather,  early  one  morning,  I 
was  playing  poker  in  the  back  room  of  a  saloon,  with 
several  other  men  of  my  paper,  when  there  entered 
a  cub  reporter  who  said  the  managing  editor  was 
looking  everywhere  for  me,  and  wanted  me  at  once, 
in  his  office. 


84  The  High  Romance 

Suspending  our  game,  we  looked  at  each  other. 
Our  glances  intermingled,  electrically  communicating 
our  common  emotions  of  surprise,  wonder,  vague  anx- 
iety. Above  the  green-covered  table,  above  the  scat- 
tered chips,  and  cards,  the  whiskey  glasses,  the  pipes, 
cigars  and  cigarettes,  through  the  vitiated,  grey  atmos- 
phere surcharged  with  tobacco  smoke,  our  uneasy 
glances  wove  jointly  a  message,  clairvoyantly  under- 
stood by  all,  and  most  adequately  voiced  by  one,  who 
said: 

"What  in  hell's  broke  loose  in  the  office  now?" 
"You  can  search  me,"  said  the  cub  reporter,  and 
departed. 

Our  paper  was  one  where  "shake-ups"  were  fre- 
quent. Office  politics  were  fierce  and  venomous. 
We  were  at  that  time  approaching  a  crisis.  I  had 
been  engaged  in  reporting  a  "story"  which  was  a 
matter  at  issue  between  the  contending  parties;  so  no 
doubt  I  was  to  be  drawn  into  the  controversy. 
"Wait  for  me,  boys,"  I  said,  "I'll  be  back." 
Taking  a  handful  of  cloves  and  cinnamon  from  the 
bowl  on  the  bar  as  I  passed  I  emerged  into  a  silent, 
echoing  street  deep  down  among  towering  office 
buildings.  At  the  comer,  I  remember  nodding  to 
Con  Maguire,  the  cop;  and  I  exchanged  salutations 
with  the  drivers  of  three  night-hawk  cabs,  with  Black 
Tom,  the  seller  of  hot  sandwiches,  and  with  Darby  the 
Hog,  the  obese  keeper  of  Little  Bohemia,  the  dance- 
hall,  from  which  the  muffled  sounds  of  shuffling  feet, 
and  of  piano,  comet  and  banjo,  brassy  and  acidulous, 
throbbed  out.  Tuming  the  corner,  I  was  midmost  of 
one  of  the  white  light  streets  of  the  town.  From  a 
hurrying  automobile  there  came  defiant  declarations 


The  Yellow  God  85 

of  alcoholic  enjoyment.  Two  young  men  ostenta- 
tiously in  evening  dress  were  quarrelling  drunkenly 
with  a  cab  driver,  while  from  the  depths  of  the  vehicle 
two  women  laughed  shrilly.  Electric  signs  advertised 
cafes,  billiard  halls,  restaurants,  and  theatres,  these 
latter  closed  now,  but  several  music  halls  were  still 
thronged  and  lighted;  and  from  their  widely  opened 
doors  the  stages  were  visible,  also  the  audiences. 
Lamentable  comedians  evoked  raucous  laughter  by 
strokes  of  wit,  strokes  accomplished  with  a  stuffed  club 
smiting  the  enormous  paunch  of  a  German,  or  with  an 
ax  that  clove  the  property  skull  of  a  Tramp ;  women  in 
tights  flourished  weary  legs  above  the  heads  of  the 
beer-drinkers  at  the  slopped  tables  on  the  floor,  singing 
in  shrill  voices  and  coquetting  in  ghastly  fashion  with 
the  spenders  and  the  openers.  The  tired,  irritable 
waiters  hurried  through  the  crowds  with  their  trays, 
and  shook  sleeping  drunkards,  and  short-changed  the 
sodden  and  the  careless.  There  were  four  of  these 
halls  within  a  space  of  one  hundred  yards,  and  the 
women  of  the  night  and  the  men  of  the  night  went  from 
one  unto  the  other.  There  were  the  smells  of  alcohol, 
stale  beer,  the  steamy  smells  from  underground 
kitchens  puffing  from  vent-holes,  the  smells  of  tobacco, 
of  musk,  of  patchouli. 

The  strange  old  woman  from  the  East  passed  me 
close — she  who  was  said  to  be  the  rich  wife  of  a 
State  Supreme  Court  justice.  Her  face  was  ghastly 
with  paint  and  powder,  her  costly  clothes  were  in  dis- 
array; upheld  by  drugs  she  passed,  diamonds  at  her 
throat,  her  purse  full  of  money,  known  in  all  the 
big  towns  of  the  land  as  the  woman  of  all  the  vices. 
Kid  Montanya,  the  Mexican  lightweight  pugilist,  sur- 


86  The  High  Romance 

rounded  by  a  retinue  of  parasites,  passed  me  as  he 
hurried  from  saloon  to  saloon,  hall  to  hall,  on  the 
wave  of  intoxication  that  had  carried  him  off  his  feet 
after  his  last  fight;  his  pockets  full  of  gold  and  silver, 
— with  both  hands  he  would  at  times  scatter  it  in  the 
music  halls;  gold  and  silver  would  sparkle  and  glitter 
through  the  smoky  air  and  men  and  women  would 
scramble  in  the  muck  of  spilled  beer,  dust,  and  cig- 
arette ends,  on  the  floor.  Supervisor  Jaxon  and  a 
group  of  lawyers,  politicians  and  chorus  girls  came 
more  or  less  staggeringly  from  out  the  restaurant  of 
the  highest  prices  and  entered  automobiles  for  a  wild 
spin  through  the  park  to  the  supper  waiting  at  the 
ocean  road-house  famed  of  sports.  And  here  and 
there,  up  and  down,  to  and  fro  passed  all  the  noctam- 
bulists,  of  big  and  little  degree,  avid  or  weary,  rest- 
less, or  stolid,  doing  daily  business,  or  questing 
frenetically  the  joys  of  the  night.  And  through  them 
all  I  passed,  who  knew  them  all;  as  I  knew  the  bus- 
iness men  by  day  in  the  tall  office  buildings,  as  I  knew 
the  clergymen  and  the  folk  of  the  churches,  and  the 
workers  in  the  factories  back  in  Petrero.  And  over- 
head in  a  sky  without  a  stain  of  cloud,  blue  as  the 
deepest  of  sea  water,  remote  and  passionless  shone 
the  watching  stars. 

"Hello,  Mike!" 

A  man  shuffling  unsteadily  across  the  street  spoke 
in  husky  accents;  and  my  eyes  came  down  from  the 
stars  and  met  the  bleared  eyes  of  my  accoster,  Ike 
Davis,  a  copy  reader.     "Come  and  have  a  drink." 

"No,  thanks,  not  just  now,  Ike,"  I  said;  "the  boss 
wants  me." 

"Yes,  by  golly,  yes!  that's  so!"  said  Davis,  his 


The  Yellow  God  87 

blood-shot  alcoholic  eyes  glittering  in  the  rays  of  the 
arc-light  overhead.     "There's  hell  popping  tonight." 

"What's  the  particular  rumpus,  Ike?" 

"Hell,  /  don't  know!  Another  run  of  brain-storms, 
I  suppose.  That  shop's  a  madhouse,  anyhow;  regular 
dippy-ward,  between  the  Big  Boss  East,  and  all  the 
combinations  here  stabbing  each  other  in  the  back. 
I  can  see  poor  Bell's  finish;  and  Blinn's,  too;  Scarratt 
has  had  his  knife  out  for  a  long  time;  and  he'll  get 
them.  He'd  get  me,  too,  if  he  could,  but  he  can't.  I 
worked  for  the  Big  Boss,  and  made  good,  long  before 
he  sneaked  into  the  game.  Why,  once  the  Big  Boss 
said  to  me — " 

But  I  had  often  heard  the  story  of  what  the  Big 
Boss  said  to  his  favourite  old  toss-pot  of  a  copy 
reader.  "I  must  break  away,  Ike,"  I  said.  "I'll  see 
you  later."  Old  Ike  nodded  and  shuffled  away 
toward  the  all-night  saloon  opposite,  and  I  entered 
the  building  and  was  carried  up  to  the  editorial  floor 
by  the  sleepy  elevator  man. 

In  the  big  city  room  were  the  night  city  editor,  the 
copy  readers,  sitting  in  a  circle  at  a  big  round  table; 
two  cub  reporters  on  the  late  watch;  Romaine,  the 
dramatic  critic  in  evening  clothes,  finishing  his 
special  for  Sunday  which  should  have  been  ready  two 
days  before,  and  a  squad  of  copy  boys.  The  last 
edition  was  going  to  press  in  ten  minutes. 

"Well,  it's  about  time  you  showed  up,"  the  youthful 
night  editor  called  out  irritably. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Mr.  Murcher  wants  to  see  you.  He's  in  his  office 
now — " 

The  ni^bt  editor  ceased  abruptly.     The  door  of  a 


88  The  High  Romance 

private  office  half  way  down  the  long  room  had  quickly 
opened,  and  from  the  doorway  there  protruded  a 
bulky  head  and  face;  a  head  round  and  covered  with 
a  shock  of  short,  coarse,  black  hair;  a  face  red  as  raw 
beef,  mottled  with  redder  pimples,  a  face  lickerish, 
humorous  and  cruel,  powerful,  violent  and  ruttish, 
the  face  of  John  Scarratt,  the  news  editor  of  the  Daily- 
News,  who  was  once  its  office  boy,  who  had  been 
managing  editor  after  managing  editor  come,  reign, 
abdicate  or  be  overthrown,  and  had  seen  city  editors 
come  and  go  by  the  score. 

"This  way,"  he  called  out  to  me  in  his  harsh  voice. 
Then  Scarratt  continued  speaking  to  some  one  within 
the  room:  "Here  he  is  now,"  and  stepped  out  of  the 
doorway  and  closed  the  door  as  I  approached  the 
private  office.  He  looked  down  the  long  room  over 
the  heads  of  the  bent  copy-readers,  looking  at  the  man 
huddled  over  his  proofs  at  the  city  desk.  And  Scar- 
ratt grinned;  he  grinned,  spat  noisily  on  the  floor,  and 
went  out  to  take  a  drink. 

I  walked  over  the  soft,  rich  carpet  of  Managing 
Editor  Murcher's  private  office  toward  the  flat-top  desk 
by  the  great  window  overlooking  the  street. 

"Sit  down;  I  want  to  talk  with  you,"  said  Mr. 
Murcher. 

He  was  one  of  the  most  successful  of  the  various 
editors  in  the  service  of  the  Big  Boss,  the  owner  and 
manager  of  the  paper,  and  also  one  of  the  least  pub- 
licly kno^vn.  And  he  was  the  one  managing  editor 
who  managed  John  Scarratt  instead  of  being  man- 
aged by  Scarratt. 

I  sat  down,  and  looked  enquiringly  at  Mr.  Murcher. 
I  already  saw  that  I  was  not  to  be  "called  down,"  that 


The  Yellow  God  89 

I  was  not  here  to  "stand  on  the  carpet"  and  be  re- 
buked. Well,  then,  there  must  be  some  special 
assignment  for  me.  .  .  . 

"How  old  are  you?"  asked  Mr.  Murcher. 

All  hazy  thoughts  vanished  in  my  shock  of  surprise, 
"I  am  nearly  thirty,"  I  answered. 

"Older  than  I  had  thought;  older  than  you  look, 
— and  old  enough  to  bear  responsibility,"  remarked 
the  editor. 

"I  hope  so,"  I  said. 

"Old  enough  to  bear  responsibility — "  he  repeated, 
scrutinizing  me  closely.  "Mr.  Williams,"  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  sudden  change  of  key;  "I  want  to  tell 
you  something,  and  to  make  a  proposition — " 

I  listened  for  ten  minutes  in  silence.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  I  walked  out  of  the  private  office  into  the 
city  room. 

Then  I  stopped,  stock  still.  Suddenly,  from  deep 
down  beneath  the  earth,  in  the  bowels  of  the  building, 
there  mounted  the  first  note  of  a  sound ;  the  first,  deep, 
troubling,  throbbing  note  of  a  sound  profound,  far- 
reaching  and  significant.  The  final  form  locked,  the 
last  stereotype  rushed  into  place,  the  foreman  had 
started  the  presses;  and  the  last  edition  of  the  paper 
was  in  the  printing.  Coal  burned,  water  boiled, 
steam  mounted,  rods  raced,  wheels  turned,  rolls  of 
white  paper  (for  which  forests  had  been  felled)  spun 
out  their  endless  ribands;  ink  smeared  the  bright 
plates,  which  touched  with  the  precision  of  fate  the 
appointed  spaces;  and  from  the  ends  of  the  machines 
dropped  in  their  thousands  the  newspapers, — filled 
with  the  records  of  the  doings  of  men  and  women,  with 
the  events  of  American  life:  murder,  marriage,  birth, 


90  The  High  Romance 

betrayal,  dance,  invention,  business,  politics,  games 
.  .  .  life,  life,  life. 

Intently  I  gave  ear,  thrilling  bodily  as  the  whole 
building  thrilled  to  the  grinding  of  the  machine;  my 
muscles  and  nerves  tensely  strung.  The  birth-song 
of  the  news  of  the  day! — dear  Lord,  what  a  dithyram- 
bic  chant  of  pulsating  life!  and  by  what  a  mystic 
concatenation  was  I  now  hearing  it  in  the  minute  when, 
from  out  the  inchoate  mass  of  the  tenders  of  the  great 
machine  of  the  news,  I  had  been  selected  to  act  as  one 
of  its  directors! 

Yes. 

I  was  now  the  city  editor  of  my  journal. 

The  editorial  room  seemed  incredibly  strange  as  I 
looked  about  it,  glancing  at  the  weary  copy-readers, 
at  the  back-bent  night  editor,  at  the  office  boys.  All 
its  familiarity  had  fled;  for  here  where  I  served  in 
careless,  accustomed  skill,  I  was  to  command.  .  .  . 

City  editor  .  .  .  what  a  queer  chance!  I  had 
always  wished  that  some  day  I  might  be  city  editor; 
not  for  long;  not  so  to  remain;  but  just  to  reach  the 
goal  aimed  for  by  so  many  reporters,  to  taste  that 
triumph,  to  drink  of  authority,  responsibility,  power 
— those  strong  drinks  of  men!  and  to  read  one  more 
significant  page  in  the  book  of  life  before  turning  to 
my  real  work — the  building  of  the  crystal  house. 

The  night  editor  called  to  me  as  I  dreamily  passed 
the  city  desk;  but  although  I  heard  him  I  did  not 
stop. 

Poor  fellow!  Scarratt's  knife  had  reached  him — 
and  he  didn't  know  it  as  yet.  And  Blinn,  the  day  city 
editor,  who  had  once  been  Murcher's  particular  pet, 
he,  too,  was  to  go.     Neither  was  "fired,"  and  that  was 


The  Yellow  God  91 

good;  for  I  would  have  disliked  to  be  forced  into  the 
places  of  men  put  out  of  a  job.  Blinn  was  going  to 
take  the  head  of  the  copy  desk;  Bell  was  going  to  the 
capital  as  the  correspondent;  politics  were  his  real 
field,  said  Murcher.  The  double  city  editor  system 
was  to  be  abandoned  for  the  time.  I  was  to  manage 
both  jobs.  This  would  not  last  long,  Murcher  had 
promised.  Just  as  soon  as  a  competent  man  could 
be  found  he  would  be  put  on  at  night — that  is,  if  I 
"made  good." 

I  raised  a  face  of  mute  wonder  to  the  stars  (at 
which,  however,  I  now  was  not  looking),  as  I  thought 
over  the  scene  in  the  office.  I  had  no  idea  that  those 
"higher  up"  had  been  watching  me  so  closely,  and 
that  my  work  had  been  liked  so  well. 

Unheedingly,  unseeingly,  I  passed  through  the 
street.  Yet  the  sub-conscious  memory  recalls  the 
scene  most  vividly.  Long  lines  of  covered  wagons 
were  standing  at  the  curbs  and  streams  of  men  and 
youths  were  already  bundling  the  papers  into  them, 
to  be  carried  to  ferries,  to  trains,  to  distributing  sta- 
tions here,  there,  and  everywhere,  so  that  the  news  of 
the  day  should  usher  in  the  day  for  hundreds  of  miles 
around.  I  bought  a  copy  of  the  paper — my  paper; 
and  what  a  new  sense  the  word  had!  Through  the 
scattering  and  disappearing  noctambulists  I  passed 
on  to  the  saloon  in  the  room  back  of  which  my  former 
comrades  were  still  playing  poker. 

How  strange  they,  too,  seemed,  as  I  stood  in  the 
door  for  a  moment,  looking  at  them,  before  they 
noticed  my  return.  How  tired  they  looked,  in  spite 
of  their  interested  faces;  how  haggard  and  how  lined 
their  faces — and  all  were  young  men,  the  most  even 


92  The  High  Romance 

younger  than  I.  And  just  for  a  breath,  there  in  the 
smoke-thickened,  liquor-tainted  air,  in  the  midst  of 
the  hour  near  dawn  when  the  tide  of  life  runs  slack 
and  the  dying  die,  to  me  there  came  a  fear,  and  it 
whispered  through  the  flush  of  my  triumphant  mood: 
the  fear  of  exhaustion:  the  fear  of  becoming  played 
out.  The  game  was  so  unresting,  so  violently  head- 
long, the  pace  so  unrelaxing.  Never  any  rest,  never 
any  solitude,  never  any  time  for  absorption,  for  con- 
templation, for  the  digestion  of  the  news  gathered  so 
omnivorously,  and  so  voraciously;  gathered  crude, 
dispensed  crude — and  would  I,  even  I,  who  dreamed 
of  extracting  from  this  mass  of  crude  facts  and  expe- 
riences the  essential  element  of  Art  be  able  to  do  so? 
.  .  .  but  the  words  of  the  fear  were  merely  whispered, 
chillingly,  indistinctly,  and  then  the  fear  passed  by. 
I  reached  out  and  poured  a  drink,  and  the  players 
stared. 

But  they  did  not  know  what  moved  me,  because  I 
was  to  keep  the  secret  of  my  promotion  until  New 
/  Years,  two  weeks  later. 


Fortunately,  the  "shake-up"  was  not  a  catastrophe. 
Nobody,  this  time,  lost  his  job.  There  was  merely 
a  changing  about  of  positions.  For  me,  it  meant  that 
for  increased  pay  I  shouldered  unending  work  and 
responsibility. 

For  in  the  service  of  the  yellow  god  of  sensational, 
commercialized  journalism  there  is  no  cessation;  the 
machine  stops  never;  its  directors  and  tenders  never 
rest.  And  I  never  rested.  My  life  sped  like  a  series 
of  biograph  pictures. 


The  Yellow  God  93 

Between  ten  and  eleven  in  the  forenoon  I  was  at 
my  desk  reading  the  morning  papers  marked  by  an 
assistant,  comparing  what  my  paper  contained  with 
what  the  rival  newspapers  contained;  deriving  im- 
mense satisfaction  from  the  "scoops"  scored  by  us; 
wincing  bitterly  over  the  "scoops"  scored  by  the 
others.  Then  as  the  reporters  appeared,  there  was 
the  anxious  and  important  task  of  assigning  to  each 
man  that  story  for  which  in  my  judgment  he  was 
best  fitted.  There  were  the  department  reporters  to 
talk  to  on  the  'phone — the  ship  news  man,  the  police 
court  men,  the  criminal  court  men,  the  city  hall  man, 
the  Federal  bureaus  man,  the  society  men  and  women, 
the  suburban  correspondents.  Then  as  the  evening 
papers  appeared,  edition  after  edition,  there  were  all 
the  new  developments  of  the  day's  grist  of  news  to 
handle.  Always  the  telephone  bell  was  ringing,  and 
reporters  called  in  from  a  score  of  places  to  announce 
events  big  or  little  which  I  must  weigh,  sift,  and  judge. 
And  ever  there  was  a  stream  of  callers  filtering 
through  the  reception  room  without;  professional 
tipsters  trying  to  sell  stories;  men  and  women  with 
various  axes  to  grind;  aggrieved  persons  threatening 
libel  suits;  cranks  and  stark  lunatics.  The  "higher 
ups"  would  appear  during  the  afternoon  with  sug- 
gestions, with  criticisms,  with  orders,  with  brilliant 
yellow  ideas  for  stories  which  already  I  had  "cov- 
ered" in  some  other  fashion  and  now  had  to  attack 
from  some  new  point  of  view.  Then  as  the  afternoon 
waned,  there  was  the  gathering  of  heads  of  depart- 
ments which  the  irreverent  and  the  scornful  dubbed 
the  "Paresis  Club";  consisting  of  managing  editor, 
news  editor,  telegraph  editor,  "make-up"  man,  he  who 


94  The  High  Romance 

put  the  paper  together  amid  the  clamour  of  the  com- 
posing room  in  the  last  hurried,  feverish  hour  of  the 
day,  and  the  head  of  the  art  department.  Then  all 
the  stories  of  the  day  were  discussed,  criticized,  and 
weighed,  and  the  space  to  be  given  each,  and  the  treat- 
ment to  be  accorded  the  important  stories,  or  those 
reflecting  the  paper's  policy,  were  decided  upon;  news 
editor,  and  telegraph  editor,  clamouring  for  space 
which  I  considered  due  to  my  city  news,  and  the  make- 
up editor  fighting  us  all,  with  his:  "We  have  eighty 
columns  of  ads — cut  your  stories  down,  cut  'em  down; 
and  make  all  those  two-column  cuts  one  column.  Cut 
to  the  bone!" 

And  generally,  after  all  this  anxious  deliberation, 
our  plans  went  to  pieces  long  before  midnight — shat- 
tered by  the  advent  of  the  always  recurring  Unex- 
pected. Somebody  would  surely  be  murdered,  or 
some  train  would  wreck,  some  cashier  flee,  or  wife 
elope,  or  millionaire  be  raked  with  a  muck-rake,  or 
some  King  sneeze  thrice  at  church;  and  the  careful 
schedule  would  be  smashed  into  flinders.  Over 
buzzing  wires  from  all  the  ends  of  the  earth  would 
come  the  news — the  news — the  news;  throughout  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  city  men  and  women  were 
forever  weaving  the  news, — the  news — the  news. 

And  often  when  the  columns  were  filled,  and  ar- 
ranged and  the  presses,  oiled  and  ready,  stood  waiting 
for  the  forms,  then  .  .  .  "Ting-a-ling-ling"  the  tel- 
ephone bell  would  spring  its  alarum, — a  great  fire  was 
raging  in  the  tenement  district,  and  "heroes"  were 
being  made  amid  the  smoke  and  flame;  or  there  was 
a  collision  on  the  bay,  or  a  gun-fight  to  the  death  in 
a  music  hall.     Then  would  the  make-up  editor  curse 


The  Yellow  God  95 

the  universe,  and  fast-fire  typewriter  operators  banged 
their  machines  to  dictation  made  by  a  reporter  at  a 
telephone,  or  by  myself,  and  the  front  page  was  given 
another  dress.  And  sometimes  news  of  such  moment 
"broke"  so  late,  that  the  order  for  an  "extra"  was 
given,  and  then  the  grey  daylight  would  be  abroad 
before  I  would  leave  the  desk. 

So  it  went  on,  day  after  day,  night  after  night,  and 
for  me  it  probably  would  eventually  have  brought 
another  breakdown  if  I  had  remained  long  at  the  city 
desk. 

But  that  was  not  to  be. 

The  end — or  the  beginning  of  the  end  of  that  ad- 
venture— came  on  April  18,  1906. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    CITY   THAT   NEVER  WAS 

1.  April  18,  1906 

I  WAS  in  Coppa's  restaurant  the  night  before,  dining 
with  James  Hopper  and  Xavier  Martinez.  They 
were  patrons  of  the  place;  members  of  the  Coppa 
group ;  I  was  a  newcomer,  and  Hopper  had  taken  me 
to  dine  in  the  queer  little  cafe  where  for  a  few  happy 
years  there  had  dwelt  a  spirit  akin  to  the  true-blue- 
Bohemianism  of  English  taverns  in  the  long  ago,  and 
that  of  the  Paris  cafes  in  the  days  before  Montmartre 
became  a  side-show  of  the  commercialized  vice  of 
Paris.  The  little  "Lark"  that  sang  so  blithely,  and 
whose  lyric  voice  carried  so  far  (I  remember  it 
reached  me  away  off  in  Canada,  where  I  was  living 
when  Bruce  Porter  and  Gelett  Burgess  and  Porter 
Garnett  and  the  others  sent  it  winging  from  the  Golden 
Gate),  was  itself  a  "lark"  of  that  gay  little  company 
of  writers  and  painters  and  newspapermen  who  fore- 
gathered in  Coppa's,  under  the  weird  frescoes,  at  the 
tables  set  apart  for  their  use  by  a  host  who  knew  that 
artists  must  eat  even  if  they  didn't  have  the  price,  and 
who  saw  to  it  that  they  did.  Wherefore,  the  names 
of  bonanza  millionaires,  and  frock-coated  politicians, 
and  many  others  who  in  their  generation  seemed  fixed 
in  the  seats  of  the  mighty  in  San  Francisco,  hath  per- 
ished from  the  records,  or  decorate  sumptuous  tombs, 

96 


The  City  That  Never  Was  97 

maybe;  but  the  name  of  Joe  Coppa  is  a  living  name 
and  will  be  passed  on  from  writer  to  writer,  and 
painter  to  painter,  down  the  corridors  of  time,  and 
pagans  will  pledge  his  memory  (at  least  until  the  bug- 
aboo, Prohibition,  comes)  and  Christians  will  pray 
for  his  friendly  soul.  For  we  who  write  and  you  who 
read  do  both  in  vain  if  ever  we  forget  that  cities  and 
men  do  not  live  in  wealth  and  material  power  and 
pride,  but  in  things  that  are  lovely  and  of  good  report. 

From  Coppa's,  that  night,  I  went  back  to  my  office; 
for  my  day's  work  was  only  beginning.  Not  until 
long  after  midnight  would  my  day  be  over.  Hopper 
— that  most  authentic  artist,  wielder  of  a  beautiful  style 
— and  I  had  been  talking,  I  remember,  of  what  chiefly 
interested  us;  which  thing  was  distinctly  not  the  news- 
paper work  which  we  both  were  doing;  it  was  art — 
in  particular,  the  art  of  writing.  We  had  met  some 
little  time  before,  up  on  the  top  of  Telegraph  Hill, 
reporting  some  murder  or  other.  Both  agreed,  how- 
ever, on  the  spot,  and  often  afterwards,  that  if  a 
writer  must  do  reporting  in  order  that  the  body  shall 
have  its  bread  and  its  raiment  while  the  soul  goes 
adventuring  in  other  realms,  why  certainly,  no  other 
city  can  off"er  such  solace  as  San  Francisco.  And  by 
and  by,  we  knew,  the  time  would  come  when  the  news- 
paper office  would  only  be  remembered  as  one  remem- 
bers a  dream  strangely  mingled  of  pain  and  pleasure, 
romance  and  deadly  drudgery,  swampy  evil — and  a 
few,  far  flights  toward  the  stars. 

There  once  was  a  time,  and  old  San  Francisco 
richly  knew  it — and  Boston,  and  New  York,  and  the 
other  cities — when  the  newspaper  was  what  it  should 
be;  when,  save  for  the  few  out-and-out  blackmailers 


98  The  High  Romance 

and  political  henchmen  of  the  pen,  who  are  always 
to  be  found  near  the  press,  the  newspaper  rested  upon 
a  basis  of  ethics;  when  editorial  writers  were  truly 
concerned  in  expressing  moral  ideas;  when  there 
were  journalists  in  the  proper  sense,  and  literary  men 
of  first  class  quality,  thinkers,  artists  in  style — men 
like  the  Golden  Era  group:  Bret  Harte,  Mark  Twain, 
Prentice  Mulford;  Noah  Brooks;  James  King  of 
William;  that  stalwart  and  romantic  personage, 
Ambrose  Bierce;  Henry  George;  James  V.  Coffey; 
Arthur  McEwen;  Edward  F.  Cahill;  Edward  H. 
Hamilton;  and  James  Tufts. 

A  few  are  still  with  us.  Hamilton  and  Tufts  are 
yet  in  the  game.  Hamilton,  one  of  the  truest  stylists 
who  have  ever  graced  the  pages  of  the  American  daily 
press;  Tufts,  a  great  editor  whose  genius  was  throttled 
by  the  vulgarity  of  the  yellow  press.  The  decline  of 
the  newspaper  in  San  Francisco — or  anywhere  else — 
is  not  due  to  the  reporters,  the  writers,  the  editors.  It 
is  due  to  the  curse  of  commercialism;  the  turning  of 
a  great  force  for  enlightenment  and  enjoyment  into 
a  mechanism  for  making  dollars,  or  playing  politics, 
or  obtaining  personal  power. 

There  were  authentic  poets,  too,  in  those  by-gone 
days ;  such  singers  as  Joaquin  Miller,  Charles  Warren 
Stoddard,  Ina  Coolbrith,  and  the  other  men  and  women 
who  under  Bret  Harte  and  later  editors  gave  the  Over- 
land Monthly  a  place  with  the  Atlantic  Monthly  in  the 
hierarchy  of  American  occasional  literature.  But  the 
fatal  curse  of  profit-chasing  had  fallen  upon  the  press, 
not  only  in  San  Francisco,  but  almost  universally  in 
the  United  States,  long  before  1906.  Most  news- 
papers existed  for  cash  first,  or  the  promotion  of  per- 


The  City  That  Never  Was  99 

sonal  interests;  all  other  interests  trailed  a  long  way 
after  these;  and  with  this  fall  from  an  ethical  plane 
came  a  coincidental  invasion  of  screaming  sensation- 
alism and  crude  vulgarity. 

A  few  lonely  figures — and,  here  and  there  in  our 
country,  but  not  now,  alas,  in  San  Francisco,  a  few 
newspapers,  still  possessing  their  souls,  survive  from 
that  earlier  epoch.  Perhaps  if  we  are  able  to  over- 
throw the  rotten  fabric  of  commercialism  which  mas- 
querades as  civilization,  the  true  newspaper  will  come 
again  into  its  own,  in  San  Francisco  as  elsewhere;  but 
as  we  walked  through  Montgomery  Street  that  bland 
still  April  evening  in  1906,  Hopper  and  I  had  good 
reasons  for  agreeing  that  when  it  was  not  corrupt  the 
newspaper  was  stupid  and  vulgar,  a  mechanism  for 
making  money,  and  no  longer  an  instrument  of  culture 
or  of  education. 

Caruso  was  singing  Don  Jose  in  Carmen,  that 
night,  with  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  company. 
My  paper  was  "playing  it  up,"  as  we  say,  and  when  I 
reached  my  desk  there  was  a  long  list  of  reporters  to 
assign  to  various  portions  of  the  grand  opera  story; 
a  corps  of  women  to  do  "society"  features;  hustling 
interviewers  who  were  to  gather  from  "well-known 
men-about-town,"  "first-nighters,"  and  other  kinds  of 
"prominent  citizens,"  their  opinions  and  criticisms  of 
the  occasion.  Frank  Mulgrew  was  one  of  those  re- 
porters, and  we  have  often  chuckled  together  since 
over  his  interviews  that  night  with  Jerry  Dinan,  the 
Chief  of  Police,  and  similar  connoisseurs.  "What  do 
I  think  of  Caruso?  Will  I  talk  for  publication? 
Sure!  You  know  what  to  say,  Frank — fix  it  up  for 
me."     We  published  columns  of  the  stuff  next  mom- 


100  The  High  Romance 

ing — next  morning  when  .  .  .  but  I'm  coming  to  that 
a  bit  later  on. 

It  was  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  when 
I  shut  up  my  desk,  and  left  the  office.  I  dropped  in 
at  the  Old  Crow  saloon,  that  "barrel  house"  so 
favoured  by  newspaper  workers.  Ike  Allen,  the  tel- 
egraph editor,  was  already  there,  and  he  introduced 
me  to  Joe  Mansfield,  a  brother  city  editor.  Jimmy 
Britt,  the  lightweight  champion  pugilist  of  the  day, 
and  his  brother,  Willus,  were  of  the  group.  A  little 
later,  leaving  Jimmy  Britt  doing  a  cakewalk  around 
and  about  the  barrels  which  served  as  tables  in  the 
Old  Crow,  to  the  huge  delight  of  everybody,  I  walked 
up  Geary  Street  to  my  apartment,  just  the  other 
side  of  Larkin,  not  far  from  Van  Ness  Avenue.  Few 
and  far  between  were  motor  cars,  in  1906.  In  the 
night  hours,  fantastic  horses  drew  shambling,  ambig- 
uous looking  cabs,  handled  by  drivers  who  knew  every 
house  in  all  the  Queer  Streets  of  the  Latin  Quarter, 
of  the  Barbary  Coast,  of  Chinatown;  and  knew  equally 
well  all  the  residences  of  those  who  maintained  Queer 
Street  as  a  going  business  through  their  habitual  pat- 
ronage. 

I  am  not  one  of  those  to  whom  the  name  San 
Francisco  is  an  evocation  of  all  that  is  disreputable, 
all  that  is  bold  and  shameless  in  sinning,  as  it  seems 
to  be  for  those  who  draw  their  limited  ideas  of  the 
city  from  the  pages  of  critics  who  only  saw  the  mere- 
tricious, or  the  corrupt,  aspects  of  old  San  Francisco. 
Every  city  has  these  aspects;  but  most  cities  are  sed- 
ulous in  whitewashing  their  charnel-houses,  in  hiding 
their  shame.  San  Francisco  is  very  frank,  even  in 
her  sinning;  especially  was  she  so  in  days  gone  by. 


The  City  That  Never  Was  101 

In  the  foolish  fashion  of  most  young  men  who 
would  writers  be,  I  spent  and  wasted  many,  many 
nights  "studying  life"  in  that  blaring  block  in  Pacific 
Street  where  roared  the  high  tide  of  Barbary  Coast, 
or  through  the  sinister  alleys  and  musky  streets  and 
lanes  of  Chinatown  and  the  Latin  Quarter,  and  I 
watched  from  the  close  point  of  view  of  a  city  editor's 
desk  the  inner  workings  of  corrupt  politics,  always 
such  a  curse  in  San  Francisco.  Wherefore  I  might 
write,  out  of  a  fund  of  experience,  singular  chronicles 
of  the  shady  side  of  Queer  Street,  in  this  city.  But 
San  Francisco's  real  life  was  not  fully  reVealed  in 
these  accidentals.  A  very  wise  old  book  which  some- 
times I  read  when  all  other  books  fail  me,  says,  in 
Latin  which  I  can't  read,  but  which  fortunately  has 
a  translation  paralleling  its  columns,  that  "God  .  .  . 
in  creating  human  nature,  hast  wonderfully  dignified 
it,  and  still  more  wonderfully  reformed  it";  and 
whether  I  mingle  with  the  life  of  Boston,  or  of  Tucson, 
New  York,  Chicago,  Vineyard  Haven,  Reno,  or  San 
Francisco — whether  in  city  or  country,  among  rich  or 
poor,  I  find  that  evil  always  is  easy  to  discover,  but 
good  is  less  obtrusive.  Perhaps  the  worst  blunder 
an  observer  of  life  can  make  would  be  to  think  that 
evil  is  the  predominating  quality  in  any  particular 
city,  or  any  particular  person.  The  most  subtle  ar- 
tistic intelligence  I  have  ever  met — that  of  Harvey 
Wickham,  my  closest  comrade  in  my  San  Francisco 
adventures — did  more  to  show  me  this  consoling  truth 
than  any  other  influence.  We  roamed  together 
through  the  underworld,  and  together  we  watched  the 
stars  of  many  a  dawn  fade  like  silver  music  from  the 
disappearing  darkness. 


102  The  High  Romance 

That  morning,  in  San  Francisco,  as  I  walked  home, 
Barbary  Coast  was  still  wide  awake  and  seething;  all 
the  dark  places  in  Queer  Street  were  doing  a  thriving 
business;  a  revised  version  of  the  old  Vigilante  Com- 
mittee had  its  secret  agents  at  work  trailing  the  steps 
of  grafting  politicians,  and  in  Grant  Avenue,  the 
night  before,  where  the  anarchists  and  the  Socialists 
and  the  religious  freaks  were  wont  to  do  their  spout- 
ing. Seventh  Day  Adventists  were  predicting  the  de- 
struction of  this  modem  Sodom  and  Gomorrah;  this 
"Paris  of  the  Pacific,"  as  one  loud-mouthed  person 
called  her — his  feeble  mind  not  holding  the  thought 
of  the  Paris  of  Notre  Dame,  or  of  the  Louvre,  or 
Pasteur  or  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  but  the  Paris  which 
used  to  be  maintained  by  the  dirty  dollars  of  such 
Americans  as  he.  But  this  meretricious  San  Fran- 
cisco, this  San  Francisco  of  Barbary  Coast  and  the 
cosmopolitan  stews — what  was  it  compared  to  the 
mighty  city  of  decent  people  who  were  sleeping  in 
that  still,  silent,  balmy  hour  before  the  dawn;  the  city 
of  such  great  works,  of  such  beauty,  of  such  romance 
and  spirituality,  of  such  future  greatness?  No,  no, 
no!  Let  somebody  else  write  about  Barbary  Coast, 
and  ambiguous  restaurants,  if  they  will;  I  celebrate, 
out  of  my  heart  and  stirred  to  my  soul  by  faith  and 
hope  and  love,  the  true  San  Francisco,  the  city  where 
the  trails  of  the  high  romance  of  my  soul  led  to  so 
many  brave  adventures! 

2.  The  Springs  Of  Goodness 

I  particularly  remember  the  singular  sensation  I 
experienced  of  realizing  how  still,  now,  and  how 


The  City  That  Never  Was  103 

silent,  the  city  was.  It  seemed  as  though  I  were  in 
the  very  centre  of  a  circle  of  stillness  and  silence. 

Now  and  then,  this  profound  silence  would  be 
broken  by  a  sound  beginning  very  far  away,  like  the 
rumour  of  a  sound.  It  would  then  come  near  and 
nearer,  rise  to  its  highest,  and  then  pass,  and  grow 
lower,  softer,  and  fade  away — like  the  ghost  of  a 
sound.  .  .  .  Automobiles  coming  home  with  merry- 
makers from  the  beach  resorts.  At  that  time,  the 
fashion  in  motor  horns  ran  to  something  that  reminded 
me,  especially  at  night,  of  some  strange  animal — a 
sort  of  melodious,  gobbling  sound,  rising  and  falling, 
and  with  something  ominous  under  the  rather  musical 
effect. 

And  as  I  heard  the  motor  cars,  one  by  one,  with  a 
sort  of  clock-work  regularity,  passing  by,  I  could 
imagine,  with  a  vividness  like  a  moving  picture  play, 
the  scenes  in  the  roadhouses  by  the  beach  beyond  the 
great  park  where  the  smooth  broad  roads  glimmered 
pale  beneath  the  high,  black  trees.  At  sloppy  tables 
I  saw  the  drinkers,  while  on  the  polished  floors  men 
and  women  danced — or,  rather,  they  "ragged,"  as 
they  call  the  up-to-date  perversion  of  the  dance;  while 
the  piano  player,  a  young,  pallid  fellow  with  a  fuming 
cigarette  stuck  to  his  lower  lip,  banged  out  the  rag- 
time music. 

But  the  last  of  the  motor  cars  passed  by.  The 
intensified  silence  drew  its  circle  closer  about  me. 

Night  was  passing.  Dawn  was  at  hand.  The 
southern  and  eastern  parts  of  the  sky  were  paling, 
and  there  the  stars  were  dim.  Elsewhere,  however, 
the  stars  were  still  big  and  clear,  and  the  sky  darkly 
and  profoundly  blue.     A  couplet  from  Wordsworth 


104  The  High  Romance 

came  into  my  mind :  "Dear  God !  the  very  houses  seem 
asleep;  and  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still!" 

No  doubt,  within  many  indeed  of  these  quiet,  dark- 
ened houses — in  Chinatown,  or  the  Tenderloin  quar- 
ter, for  example — evil  was  awake  and  busy — as  hor- 
rible dreams  may  go  on  behind  a  sleeper's  placid  fore- 
head— but  outwardly  all  was  calm,  and  broodingly 
silent.  There  came  upon  me  a  keen  realization  of 
the  wonder  of  the  city's  suspended  consciousness. 
There  was  a  singular  magic  in  the  suggestion  of  rest 
that  emanated  from  those  shadowy  congeries  of  va- 
cant, criss-crossing  streets,  and  houses  darkly  slum- 
bering. In  this  curious  space  between  night  and  day 
it  seemed  to  me  that  sleep  had  finally  conquered  all 
resistance,  had  worn  down  the  stubbornness  of  the 
most  determined  noctambulists,  just  as  a  quiet, 
strong-willed  nurse  or  mother  might  subdue  her  ob- 
streperous children. 

A  sense  of  awe  came  next.  I  felt  as  if  I  must  be 
the  only  person  left  awake  in  all  San  Francisco,  and 
as  if  I  had  no  right  to  be  awake.  I  felt  like  an 
intruder.  It  was  as  if  I  had  blundered  into  some 
lodge-room  or  chapel  where  a  secret  rite  was  about 
to  be  celebrated.  There  was  something  in  all  this 
quietude  which  troubled  me  deeply.  The  city  no 
longer  seemed  merely  resting,  placidly  slumbering, 
relaxed  and  at  peace.  It  became  to  me  like  a  city 
held  in  a  trance.  It  brought  back  to  me  the  uneasy, 
curious,  feelings  I  had  once  experienced  when  I  saw 
a  hypnotist  put  a  number  of  men  and  women  into 
deep  entrancement  and  without  using  any  audible 
words  plant  his  suggestions  in  their  minds.  Only 
now  I  felt  my  awe  more  profoundly.     I  seemed 


The  City  That  Never  Was  105 

aware  of  strange  things  happening  behind  the  veil  of 
the  dusky  dawn  and  the  unbroken  quiet  of  the  city's 
sleep.  I  seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of  actually  know- 
ing just  how  all  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of  men 
and  women  and  children  slumbering  all  about  me 
were  being  surcharged,  like  so  many  living  batteries, 
with  new  energy  generated  by  the  tremendous,  invis- 
ible dynamos  of  sleep  and  silence.  Streams  of  fresh 
life  were  pulsing  into  them  all  for  the  use  of  the 
coming  day.  Power  for  thought  and  for  action. 
Power  more  potent,  and  infinitely  more  subtle,  than 
all  the  electrical  currents  that  could  be  generated  by 
a  hundred  Niagaras!  And  soon  these  living  batteries, 
each  with  a  place  in  the  vast,  complex,  living  machine 
of  the  city,  would  awaken  and  take  its  part  in  the 
diurnal  working  of  the  great  organisms  and  so  expend 
the  energy  now  pouring  into  them. 

This  energy,  I  wondered — as  who  of  us  hasn't  won- 
dered!— from  where  did  it  come?  And  what,  really, 
was  it?  And  where  was  it  driving  the  human  ma- 
chines? 

This  everlasting,  triadic  question  to  which  there  is 
no  answer — the  whence,  and  why  and  where! 

How  futile  to  ask  it. 

It  was  just  as  futile  as  it  would  be  to  go  upon  one 
of  the  city's  many  hills,  and  ask  the  why  and  where- 
fore of  the  tides  of  the  sea,  or  the  system  of  the 
stars,  or  the  secret  of  the  rising  sun. 

And  yet,  as  I  dreamed  my  way  homeward  through 
the  silent  city  under  the  mystical  stars,  I  was  seized 
with  a  deep,  thrilling  impression  that  I  was  about  to 
understand  the  cosmic  mystery — that  the  secrets  of 
the  sky  and  of  the  earth  and  water,  and  the  secret  of 


106  The  High  Romance 

man,  were  about  to  be  revealed.  There  was  the 
thought  that  between  the  sleepers  in  the  city,  and  the 
stars  and  the  sea  and  the  earth,  there  was  in  this  mo- 
ment the  closest  kind  of  communion — as  though  the 
tide  of  life  flowing  into  the  sleepers  was  gathering  its 
force  from  sea  and  air  and  earth  and  stars — and 
that  now:  this  instant,  all  were  in  rapport — and  had 
come  to  a  crisis;  like  a  clock  that  had  reached  its 
time  to  strike  the  hour. 

And  this  mystical  moment  left  the  glow  of  a  thought 
in  my  mind,  as  a  meteor  leaves  a  trail  of  light,  though 
its  central  brightness  disappears.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  understood  at  least  one  chief  factor  that 
entered  into  the  wonder  of  the  city's  sleep.  This 
factor  was  my  realization  of  how  united  at  this 
moment  all  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of  individual- 
ities were  in  the  condition  of  sleep.  So  far  as 
ordinary  consciousness  was  concerned,  and  the 
ordinary  aff'airs  of  life,  egoism — that  potent  source 
of  human  discordance — was  in  abeyance.  All  the 
warring  and  irreconcilable  elements  that  spring  from 
egoism  were  withdrawn  from  manifestation. 

What  would  be  the  result  should  the  sleepers 
awaken  bereft  of  egoism — united  in  waking  life  as 
now  they  were  united  in  slumber — and  if  they  should 
employ  in  unity  and  for  unity  the  energy  they  were 
now  deriving  together  from  the  secret  springs  of 
sleep  and  silence? 

Once  more  my  mind  gave  up  a  memory — that  para- 
graph of  Goethe's  which  one  reads  with  yearning 
wistfulness,  and  the  wish:  "'Oh,  if  it  could  only 
happen!"  I  suppose  you  know  the  paragraph;  it 
runs  something  like  this:     "There  is  in  man  a  force 


The  City  That  Never  Was  107 

— a  spring  of  goodness — which  counterbalances 
egoism;  and  if  by  a  miracle  it  could  for  a  moment 
suddenly  be  active  in  all  men,  the  earth  would  be  at 
once  free  from  evil." 

I  was  dreaming,  as  who  does  not.  Dreaming 
vainly,  perhaps,  yet  I  don't  disown  or  repudiate  my 
dream — I  only  acknowledge  that  I  have  not  realized 
my  share  of  it.  Yes,  that's  a  good  way  to  express 
the  matter — for  my  dream  was  but  a  share  of  a  bigger 
dream — which  is  the  dream  of  tliis  age.  It  is  with 
us  all,  in  greater  or  lesser  degree.  It  is  the  dream 
of  human  Betterment — the  dream  of  Brotherhood! 
I  don't  use  the  word  "dream"  as  a  symbol  of  some- 
thing unreal.  No — dreams  such  as  this  are  what 
Shelley  said  poetry  was — the  mirrors  of  the  great 
shadows  which  the  future  casts  upon  the  troubled 
surface  of  the  present.  All  the  many  dreams  by 
which  we  think  to  effect  the  common  end  are  parts 
and  fragments  of  the  one,  great  dream.  Like  the 
co-operating  thoughts  of  one,  gigantic  mind,  they 
work  together  to  realize  the  world's  desire,  even  when 
they  appear  to  contradict  and  neutralize  each  other. 

For  I  believed — and  here  let  me  say  that  I  still 
believe — no  matter  what  anybody  may  say — no 
matter  how  many  facts  may  seem  to  argue  against  the 
truth  of  my  belief — I  believed  then,  and  I  believe 
now,  that  the  inscrutable  forces  of  Good  are  power- 
ful today  with  the  power  of  the  rising  tide.  They 
are  changing  doubt  to  hope,  and  fear  to  faith,  and 
anger  and  hatred  into  love,  more  mightily,  perhaps, 
than  at  any  other  time  since  when  the  Prince  of  Peace 
and  Lord  of  Love  Himself  expressed  the  world's  de- 
sire,  when   he   said:     "Thy   kingdom   come:     Thy 


108  The  High  Romance 

will  be  done  in  earth  as  in  heaven."  The  Kingdom 
of  peace  and  of  brotherly  love.  Good  Will,  to  the 
sway  of  which  the  whole  creation  moves! 

My    credo  .  .  .  and    we'll    get    back    to    the 
story.  .  .  . 


3.  The  Shock 

But  I  was  too  tired,  bodily,  and  in  mind,  and  soul 
as  well,  to  maintain  my  meditation.  I  had  reached 
my  home;  I  let  myself  in  and  got  noiselessly  to  bed. 

I  suppose  it  was  nearly  four  o'clock  when  at  last 
my  excited  brain  ceased  its  working,  and  sleep  came. 

And  almost  at  once  I  came  awake  again — vaguely 
wondering  what  was  the  matter? 

The  big  bed  in  which  I  lay  was  trying  its  best  to 
imitate  a  bucking  broncho  and  to  throw  me  out  of 
the  window,  toward  which  it  was  lurching.  The  air 
itself  seemed  to  be  pulling  at  me,  with  invisible 
fingers  clutching  from  all  directions  at  once,  but  un- 
evenly; the  plaster  was  falling  in  big  chunks;  and 
there  was  a  vast,  crescendic  roaring  noise,  incompre- 
hensible: a  vast  sea  of  sound. 

There  was  the  commingling  of  the  crash  of  falling 
walls,  the  tumbling  of  millions  of  bricks,  the  rending 
and  cracking  and  splintering  of  wood,  the  shattering 
of  window  glass  by  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
sheets  and  panes,  and  myriads  of  other  sounds.  All 
these  were  based,  as  it  were,  on  another,  unwordable 
sound,  which  was  the  roaring  of  the  earthquake — 
the  groaning  of  the  very  earth  itself. 

What  a  racket! 


The  City  That  Never  Was  109 

It  was  like — well,  it  was  like — let  me  see,  now 
it  was  like — Oh,  heavens  above,  /  don't  know  what  it 
was  like!  Nobody  knows.  Fancy  a  billion  big 
drays,  loaded  with  iron  rails  passing  along  over 
rough  cobble  stones,  with  the  rails  clangorously  fall- 
ing, and  the  windows  of  all  the  houses  being 
shattered  by  the  concussions,  and  then  fancy — but, 
no,  you  can't!  Neither  can  I.  That  noise  is  not 
to  be  conjured  up  by  fancy — it  can  only  be  remem- 
bered. 

Yet  that  terrible  noise  was  nothing  at  all — a  mere 
trifle,  a  trivial  incident,  a  bagatelle,  compared  to  the 
impression  of  the  earthquake  as  earthquake,  if  I  may 
so  express  myself. 

But  how  can  I  tell  you?  I  really  cannot  tell 
you! 

For  there  was  something  about  that  shock  that 
struck,  deeper  than  any  sound  could  penetrate,  into 
the  substance  of  your  soul. 

— You  know  how  it  is  when  we  try  to  suggest 
some  tremendous  emotion  or  altogether  unusual 
sense  of  calamity — we  say,  "It  was  as  if  the  earth 
moved  under  our  feet,"  or,  "It  was  as  if  the  earth 
trembled." 

So  what  can  we  say — what  is  there  left  to  say — 
when  the  earth  in  fact  does  move  under  our  feet, 
when  actually  the  earth  does  tremble? 

For  we  are  so  accustomed  to  the  earth  being — well, 
reliable,  trustworthy:  safe,  sane,  and  conservative, 
so  to  speak.  We  are  so  used  to  being  its  boss,  to 
using  it  as  we  please,  ploughing  and  digging  it, 
sowing  and  reaping  it,  building  our  cities  with  its 
own  stuff,  brick  and  stone  and  wood — without  a  mur- 


110  The  High  Romance 

mur  from  it,  without  any  tricks  being  played  with 
us,  such  as  the  untamable  sea  and  the  mysterious  air 
and  that  dangerous  character,  fire,  take  pleasure  in 
perpetrating.  We're  up  against  trouble  all  the  time 
in  our  dealings  with  water,  and  fire,  and  air — but 
we  consider  the  earth  a  straight,  clear-cut  proposi- 
tion. 

So  when  it  cuts  loose.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  give  it  up!' 
There  aren't  any  words  for  what  you  feel  in  an  earth- 
quake shock. 

Here's  a  bit  of  a  hint.  Suppose  you  were  on  a 
ship  at  sea,  on  a  long,  long,  voyage,  so  that  the 
motion,  the  fluidity,  the  freedom  of  movement,  were 
part  of  your  very  being — you  are  saturated  with 
motion — and  suddenly  the  water  becomes  a  solid 
substance,  and  the  air  becomes  rigid,  and  the  ship 
stops  and  is  held  without  a  quiver,  like  a  toy  ship 
frozen  inside  a  block  of  ice.  Well,  the  solid  earth, 
that  morning  in  San  Francisco,  was  behaving  like  the 
unstable  sea — 

Oh,  but  what's  the  use!  The  feeling  simply  can't 
be  described.  It  dates  back  to  chaos — to  a  time 
before  there  was  any  law  and  order  or  solid  sub- 
stance. This  upheaval  of  the  primal  powers  that 
bind  atom  to  atom,  cell  to  cell,  organism  to  organ- 
ism, star  to  star,  and  universe  to  universe,  through- 
out all  creation  in  cohesion,  and  balance,  and  system, 
leaves  in  the  mind  that  has  experienced  it  a  memory 
which  is  unique,  and  a  sensation  which  lies  altogether 
outside  the  limits  of  category.  Only  those  who  have 
gone  through  a  'quake  can  understand  me.  I'll  just 
add  this,  however, — that  we  who  have  gone  through 
a  big  'quake  understand  what  other  people  can  only 


The  City  That  Never  Was  111 

think  they  understand,  namely,  that  the  foundation, 
the  underlying  principle,  of  all  material  things  from 
the  ultimate  atom  to  the  biggest  star  in  the  heavens 
is  nothing  that  can  be  seen  or  touched  or  handled  or 
known  by  any  sense,  but  is  forever  imponderable, 
and  unnamable,  and  eternally  inscrutable.  We  hint 
at  it  in  such  terms  as  the  cosmic  ether,  polarity,  gravi- 
tation, and  so  forth,  and  so  on.  Some  of  us,  how- 
ever, are  still  old-fashioned  enough  to  say,  the  Hand 
of  God. 

At  any  rate  it  was  shaking  the  city  of  San  Fran- 
cisco that  bright,  still  dawn,  and  beneath  the  falling 
timbers  and  stones  men  and  women  and  children 
were  being  crushed  to  death  by  hundreds.  At  a  score 
of  points  fire  was  springing  up.  And  there  was  no 
water  with  which  the  fires  could  be  quenched  in  this 
first  stages.  The  water-supplying  system  had  been 
put  out  of  business  by  the  shock.  I  have  been  told 
that  the  water  mains  were  not  properly  constructed, 
any  more  than  the  ruined  City  Hall  was  properly 
constructed — that  in  both  jobs  there  had  been  rich, 
fat  graft.  You  see?  It  was  as  if  the  corruption  of 
the  city's  life  had  corroded  its  very  bones,  eaten  into 
its  very  physical  structure,  so  that  in  the  hour  of  its 
calamity  it  lacked  the  power  to  save  itself.  As  we 
now  know,  if  the  fires  could  have  been  controlled  in 
those  first  few  hours,  huge  as  was  the  damage  of  the 
earthquake,  it  would  have  been  a  trifle  in  comparison 
with  that  which  was  inflicted  by  the  fire — that  fire 
which  was  the  worst  this  fire-ravaged  world  has  wit- 
nessed, so  far  as  history  can  show. 


112  The  High  Romance 

4.  But  the  Baby  is  Calm 

My  little  daughter  was  in  the  crib  by  the  bed. 
Her  mother  gathered  her  up  quickly  in  her  arms, 
and  I  arched  myself  above  them  both,  to  ward  off 
the  plaster,  or  the  universe,  I  didn't  know  which. 
Our  baby  boy  was  in  the  adjoining  room,  in  a  crib 
by  the  bedside  of  a  friend  who  lived  with  us;  a 
lady  who  appeared  a  second  or  two  after  the  start  of 
the  trouble,  in  her  nightdress,  in  the  doorway.  She 
was  a  maiden  lady  from  New  England;  so  you  see 
how  unconventional  this  occasion  must  have  been. 
She  it  was  who  gave  a  name  to  it. 

"Earthquake!"  she  said. 

I  had  vaguely  thought  of  an  explosion;  of  a  sudden 
and  awful  storm  approaching,  or  a  flood,  a  tidal 
wave;  but,  sure  enough,  now  I  understood  that  it  was 
an  earthquake.  When  you  come  back  from  sleep 
after  only  an  hour,  you  are  not  as  bright-minded 
as  you'd  like  to  be  able  to  say  you  were. 

"The  baby!"  cried  the  lady  in  the  doorway. 

Then,  as  neither  the  plaster  nor  the  universe  had 
crushed  us  so  far,  I  ceased  my  imitation  of  a  cat 
with  its  back  arched,  and  ran  into  the  outer  room. 

The  force  of  the  shock  had  been  much  greater 
there.  All  the  furniture  was  crowding  into  the 
middle  of  the  room  and  trying  to  play  a  clumsy  game 
of  leap-frog.  It  was  bright  daylight  of  a  perfect 
April  day  outside,  but  the  blinds  were  drawn  in  the 
room  and  the  light  was  dim,  mild,  and  milky.  And 
through  this  placid,  opalescent  light  I  saw  the  wide, 
untroubled  eyes  of  the  baby  boy,  who  was  perfectly 
calm,  looking  at  me.     He  was  like  a  philosopher 


The  City  That  Never  Was  113 

from  some  other  planet  nonchalantly  observing  a 
queer  human  being  in  pajamas  scrambling  over  a 
mountain  of  furniture,  in  a  room  which  was  appar- 
ently trying  to  turn  itself  inside  out.  I  have  often 
wondered  what  can  go  on  in  the  mind  of  a  child  in 
such  a  moment. 


5.  Out    in  the  Street 

The  earthquake  came  a  little  after  five.  It  lasted 
eighteen  seconds.  According  to  the  scientific  gentle- 
men, it  appears  that  the  coast  range  mountains  along 
a  line  of  some  three  hundred  miles  shrugged  their 
shoulders,  or  made  a  slight  gesture,  as  it  were,  and 
cities  and  towns  and  villages  along  that  line  behaved 
very  much  as  a  child's  building  blocks  behave  when 
he  pulls  the  table  cloth  on  which  they  are  stacked. 
Mount  Tamalpais,  a  mass  of  how  many  billions  of 
tons  only  science  can  tell  you,  shifted  its  position. 
Redwood  trees  three  or  four  thousand  years  old  were 
split  wide  open.  Torrents  and  springs  of  water  or 
sand  leaped  from  the  broken  and  tortured  earth. 
Landslides  streamed  down  the  hills.  Trees  were 
overthrown.  All  this,  outside  the  city.  As  for  the 
city —  Well,  let  me  return  to  my  own  adventures; 
it  is  hopeless  to  attempt  the  description  of  the  city's 
fate,  just  yet. 

The  house  I  lived  in  was  an  old  wooden  structure, 
solidly  and  honestly  made.  Like  all  such,  it  swayed 
and  shook;  plaster  fell,  shelves  were  emptied;  but 
there  was  no  serious  damage.  Honestly  made  steel 
buildings  also  stood  the  racket. 

Before  the  shock  had  finished  its  course  by  more 


114  The  High  Romance 

than  a  few  seconds,  we  were  in  the  street;  part  of  the 
fantastic  multitude  disgorging  out  of  doorways  up 
and  down  all  the  streets  of  the  city.  Some,  but  these 
were  the  few,  were  dressed;  house-wives  or  servants 
or  workers  early  astir;  but  the  most  of  us  were  in  all 
the  stages  of  extraordinary  dishabille.  There  was 
a  vacant  lot  not  far  from  the  house,  and  to  this  we 
ran,  and  soon  the  place  was  crowded  with  fat  men  in 
nighties,  women  with  children  in  their  arms,  blankets 
about  some  of  them,  others  merely  in  their  night- 
gowns; and  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  women, 
and  children. 

There  was  a  brief  pause,  as  it  were ;  a  scant  breath- 
ing spell,  and  then,  very  suddenly,  my  heart  tried 
to  jump  out  of  my  mouth,  and  then  seemed  to  fall 
back,  fluttering  like  a  wounded  creature. 

Another  earthquake  had  begun  .  .  .  again  the 
earth,  and  the  air,  and  all  that  was  upon  the  earth, 
and  in  the  air,  was  throbbing,  was  swaying,  was 
quivering,  was  palpitating  enormously.  It  was 
frightful!  But  thank  God,  it  didn't  last  so  long, 
nor  was  it  nearly  so  severe  as  the  first  one.  Never- 
theless, it  shook  down  walls  that  had  been  weakened 
by  the  other  shock,  and  bricks  from  chimneys  came 
raining  down,  and  people  who  had  ventured  back 
into  their  houses  came  rushing  out  in  fresh  dismay. 
Some  of  them  didn't  come  out  again;  falling  walls 
or  beams  pinning  them  down,  killed  or  badly  in- 
jured, caught,  in  some  places,  like  animals  in  pits 
or  dead-fall  traps. 

There  came  a  fresh  wave  of  people  rushing  through 
the  streets,  but  we  remained  in  the  open  space. 

And  up  the  middle  of  the  street,  a  little  bit  later, 


The  City  That  Never  Was  115 

there  walked  two  well-dressed  men;  Orientals,  or 
mulattoes;  looking  as  if  they  had  been  up  all  night 
waiting  for  this  moment.  They  were  proclaiming 
the  end  of  the  world.  It  was  Judgment  Day,  they 
cried;  the  Book  was  open,  the  Book  of  Life  and 
Death;  and  they  bade  us  fall  upon  our  knees  and 
pray.  And,  really,  you  know — we  weren't  sure  they 
were  not  right.  Truly,  it  was  like  the  end  of  things 
mortal.  Somebody,  looking  at  the  wall  of  fire  march- 
ing toward  us,  later  on;  that  strangely  silent,  quietly 
busy  advance  of  a  wall  of  flame,  said:  "Yes,  it 
surely  must  be  Judgment  Day."  Somebody  else  re- 
plied:    "And  this  must  be  the  gates  of  hell." 

It  ought  to  have  been  a  perfectly  tremendous 
moment,  I  suppose  .  .  .  but  it  wasn't. 

The  trouble  was,  that  we  couldn't  believe  our 
prophet.  Daylight,  I  expect,  is  not  congenial  to  be- 
lief in  prophets,  even  when  the  daylight  is  one  of  a 
day  of  disaster.  There  seems  to  be  something  in  us, 
something  that  belongs  to  our  very  life — perhaps  it 
is  the  force  of  life  itself — that  utterly  refuses  to  be- 
lieve in  death  until  death  itself  says:  "Here  I  am." 
Even  if  April  18,  1906,  really  had  been  Doomsday, 
you  couldn't  have  got  us  to  believe  it,  out  there  in 
San  Francisco,  not  if  a  regiment  of  black  prophets 
had  been  on  the  job. 

I  saw  a  few  troubled  faces  here  and  there  amid 
the  crowd,  but  the  trouble  was  more  what  you  might 
feel  when  somebody  acts  indecorously  than  anything 
deeper. 

"That  mutt  must  be  crazy,"  I  heard  a  fat  man 
wheezing  near  me. 

"Somebody  ought  to  make  him  shut  up — or  knock 


116  The  High  Romance 

his  block  off,"  answered  the  man  the  fat  chap  spoke 
to.  "Say,  even  if  he  is  right  what  business  has  he 
to  try  to  scare  folks?" 

Personally,  I  felt  quite  indifferent.  Maybe  the 
prophet  was  right.  Quite  likely  he  was.  But  if  this 
was  the  end  of  the  world —  Oh,  very  well,  it  was 
the  end  of  the  world — but  we  might  just  as  well  carry 
on,  without  any  fuss. 

And  that,  you  might  say,  was  the  common,  the 
general  feeling,  not  only  there  in  Geary  Street,  but 
throughout  the  city,  and  not  only  then,  as  we  recov- 
ered from  the  first  stunning  confusion  of  the  shock, 
but  later  on,  throughout  all  the  terrible  days  that 
followed.  It  was  not  that  we  were  indifferent  to 
fears  and  horrors  and  disasters;  not  at  all;  nor  was 
it  that  we  were  endowed  with  heroic  courage  to  over- 
come all  things.  No,  that  was  not  the  case.  We 
were  full  of  fears,  all  the  time.  I  think  there  was 
hardly  one  of  us  who  didn't  keep  in  mind  the  dark 
horror  of  a  tidal  wave.  Others,  I  know  from  what 
they  told  me,  felt  that  at  any  moment  the  earth  might 
open  and  swallow  them.  The  menace  of  shaky  walls 
loomed  always  over  us.  In  the  first  few  days,  there 
came  more  than  forty  minor  shocks,  and  each  shock 
sent  many  nervously  disordered  persons  temporarily 
insane.  The  sand-hills  toward  the  sea  were  full  of 
wandering,  harmless,  mad  folk;  talking  and  mutter- 
ing to  themselves,  or  sitting  on  the  ground  staring 
at  the  smoke  and  crimson  reflections  of  the  fire  in 
the  sky.  And  we  knew  the  fear  of  plague,  and  of 
pestilence,  and  starvation,  and  sudden  death.  And 
always  there  were  circulating  the  most  dreadful 
rumours.     We   believed   them,    too,   more   or   less. 


The  City  That  Never  Was  117 

Why  not?  Anything  might  happen,  after  what  had 
already  happened.  Anything  at  all.  Nothing  was 
impossible.  We  heard  that  Los  Angeles  had  been 
wiped  out  completely.  Mount  Rainier  was  in  erup- 
tion; torrents  of  lava  were  covering  the  north  country 
with  burning  lakes.  Chicago  had  been  swallowed  by 
Lake  Michigan.  The  catastrophe  was  country -wide ; 
maybe  it  was  universal;  for  London  had  been  smitten, 
so  we  heard.  There  were  no  telegraph  wires  working 
for  days,  of  course,  but  only  a  few  of  us  were  aware 
of  this.  Anyhow,  rumours,  as  we  all  know,  whether 
false  or  true,  do  not  need  telegraph  wires  in  order 
to  travel  about;  they  seem  to  use  the  all-pervading 
ether,  like  the  waves  of  the  wireless.  Or  else  they 
spread  through  telepathy. 

But,  all  the  same,  we  did  not  get  badly  excited. 
We  were  bewildered;  some  of  us  were  bedazed;  we 
were  all  nerve  shaken,  and  we  all  had  our  own 
particular  fears  to  face — but,  taking  us  altogether, 
by  and  large,  taking  us  as  a  crowd  of  human  beings 
— as  a  mob,  if  you  like — as  a  multitude — we  stood 
everything  mighty  well.  There  was  a  calmness; 
there  was  a  grave,  yet  kindly,  almost  smiling  kind 
of  acceptance  of  the  situation  on  the  part  of  the  people 
as  a  whole,  the  memory  of  which  remains  with  me 
like  the  memory  of  noble  and  harmonic  music.  For, 
after  all,  you  see,  there  was  something  in  San  Fran- 
cisco which  the  'quake  could  not  overthrow,  nor  even 
agitate  very  seriously — and  this  thing  was  the  in- 
tangible something  which  is  the  spirit  of  human  nature 
— the  spirit  of  human  life — which  shows  itself  in 
human  nature's  unbreakable  habit  of  keeping  busy 
at  the  business  of  living  on  in  this  world  just  as  long 


118  The  High  Romance 

as  there  is  any  shred  of  world  left  on  which  to  live. 
What  is  that  inner  something?  That  inmost  assur- 
ance? Mere  instinct?  Self-preservation?  The 
will-to-live?     Or  is  it  Faith? 

Anyhow — we  do,  we  will  carry  on.  Some  day 
we'll  know  why. 

6.  The  Flight 

By  and  by,  I  ventured  back  into  the  house,  wonder- 
ing what  moment  it  would  fall  in  upon  me,  and 
secured  my  clothes.  My  wife — being  one  of  those 
extraordinary  women  whom  nothing  frightens — except 
mice — also  went  back  and  cooked  breakfast. 

Then  I  started  to  walk  toward  the  office,  but  on 
my  way  I  learned  that  the  fire  chief  had  been  killed, 
that  the  water  mains  of  the  city  were  out  of  business, 
and  that  great  fires  had  started  in  many  directions, 
and  were  joining,  spreading,  and  marching  along. 
So  I  knew,  right  then  and  there,  that  the  real  name 
of  this  calamity  was  not  earthquake,  but  fire;  and  I 
knew  that  it  would  march  along  without  any  other 
force  being  able  to  stop  it.  Not  remembering  the 
width  of  Van  Ness  Avenue  (one  can't  think  of  every- 
thing in  such  moments,  not  even  a  newspaperman!), 
I  thought  that  the  whole  city  was  doomed.  So  my 
first  duty  was  toward  those  waiting  for  me  in  Geary 
Street.  On  my  journey  to  them  I  spent  what  little 
money  I  had  in  buying  condensed  cream,  chocolate, 
bread,  canned  stuff,  health  food  (of  a  particular 
brand,  indispensable  to  a  one  year  old  baby  with  a 
weak  digestive  machine)  and  trifles  of  that  sort,  which 
I  stuffed  into  the  recesses  of  a  canvas  shooting  coat 


The  City  That  Never  Was  119 

which  I  had  thrown  on  that  morning,  with  some  vague 
notion,  no  doubt,  of  dressing  appropriately.  And  as 
I  watched  the  great  crowds  pouring  onward  before  the 
drive  of  flame  for  the  most  part  so  silently,  so  calmly ; 
dragging  trunks,  bed-steads,  carts,  baby-carriages, 
easy  chairs,  bundles,  baskets,  bags,  caged  parrots, 
stuffed  owls,  books,  tools,  bed-clothes,  loaves  of  bread, 
live  chickens,  statues  of  the  saints,  jugs,  guns,  and  all 
manner  of  things — as  I  watched  this  strange  multi- 
tude, moving  through  a  stranger  silence,  the  silence 
of  a  city  in  which  no  trolley  cars  were  thundering, 
I  remembered,  with  gratitude  to  the  giver  of  all  good 
thoughts,  that  there  were  soldiers.  Uncle  Sam's 
regular  soldiers,  out  at  the  Presidio,  and  that  a  very 
good  place  for  a  married  man  and  his  family  to  seek 
for  lodging  would  be  a  tent  near  those  soldiers.  For, 
like  many  others,  I  dreaded  looting  on  the  grand  scale, 
and  starving  mobs,  and  scarlet  anarchy. 

Again  we  ventured  into  the  house,  up  to  the  top 
floor.  From  the  windows  at  the  back  we  saw  the 
dome  of  the  City  Hall  against  a  sky  beginning  to 
blacken  with  smoke,  and  lurid  with  flame;  a  dome 
like  a  sinister  skeleton,  stripped  to  its  ribs  of  steel; 
looking  like  a  gigantic  bird-cage;  and  I  saw  the  flames 
south  of  Market  Street,  and  out  in  the  Mission,  and 
toward  the  foot  of  Geary  Street. 

Then  began  that  awful  tramp  to  the  Presidio,  push- 
ing one  child  in  the  baby  carriage,  with  the  other 
carried  in  our  arms,  or  in  the  foot  of  the  carriage, 
and  dragging  all  that  we  could  manage  to  drag, 
wrapped  up  in  a  quilt;  up  hill,  and  down  hill;  that 
terrible  tramp  to  the  Presidio.  For  a  man  who  had 
come  West  in  order  to  patch  up  a  hole  in  his  lungs, 


120  The  High  Romance 

it  was  tough  work;  but  I  didn't  think  so  then.  For 
when  you  imagine  that  at  any  moment  the  earth  may 
open  and  swallow  you  up,  at  one  bite  (as  we  heard 
it  had  been  doing  in  many  places),  or  when  the  sea 
is  expected  to  send  in  a  tidal  wave,  as  it  was 
libellously  accused  of  having  done  elsewhere,  why, 
you  cease  to  take  much  interest  in  your  minor  or 
major  ailments.  Many  a  bedridden  invalid  leaped 
clear  out  of  bed  that  morning  and  didn't  go  back 
again;  cured  by  the  shock. 

What  I  chiefly  worried  about  was  my  lack  of  money. 
Strange,  I  know,  that  a  wandering  writer,  should  feel 
such  a  worry;  all  the  traditions  of  Bohemia  go  against 
the  fact;  but  yet,  so  it  was,  and  the  first  man  I  knew 
by  sight  was  called  upon  at  once  to  make  me  a  loan. 
It  was  Tom  Dillon,  the  Hatter  (I  present  him  with  this 
advertisement  with  immense  satisfaction).  He  didn't 
know  me ;  but,  just  like  a  true  San  Franciscan,  he  did 
not  enquire  too  closely  into  this  panhandling  demand, 
he  simply,  out  of  the  goodness  of  a  San  Franciscan's 
heart,  put  a  twenty-dollar  gold  piece  in  my  hand. 
(It  was  a  long,  long  time  before  he  got  it  back;  but 
if  I  ever  make  any  money  I  think  I  will  walk  up  and 
down  Third  Street  some  night,  and  give  away  twenty 
dollars  to  the  toughest  looking  hoboes  I  can  discover, 
and  then  ask  them  all  to  spend  at  least  part  of  it  in 
drinking  the  health  of  Tom  Dillon.) 

Then  I  bought  more  food.  I  point  with  pride  to 
this  fact.  I  proclaim  it;  I  write  it  down  in  a  book 
that  once  in  his  life,  at  least,  a  writing  man  who  from 
the  dim  beginnings  down  all  the  coloured  years  had 
sought  the  far  trails  of  high  Romance  through  all  the 
western  world,  was  practical!     As  a  result,  we  did 


The  City  That  Never  Was  121 

not  have  to  join  the  bread-line!  But  there  were 
millionaires,  and  capitalists,  and  even  canny 
politicians,   who   did. 

We  obtained  a  tent,  though  thousands  of  late  comers 
were  disappointed.  All  through  that  night  I  kept 
a  revolver  near  my  hand,  as  the  thousands  of  feet 
went  pounding,  pounding,  pounding — pounding  with- 
out cessation,  pounding  all  night  long,  pounding  like 
dull  yet  mighty  drumming,  pounding  like  the  sustained 
and  awful  sussurance  of  a  mighty  ocean — as  the 
crowds  poured  in  from  the  flaming  city.  Fifty  miles 
inland  and  far  out  at  sea  that  tremendous  blaze 
illuminated  the  night,  reflected  back  from  the  huge 
canopy  of  smoke  that  overspread  the  sky,  although 
elsewhere  it  was  a  starry  night,  bland  and  still. 
Detonations  of  dynamite  now  and  then  thudded 
through  the  pounding. 

With  the  morning  I  left  my  family,  and  struck  out 
for  my  office.  The  three  morning  newspapers  joined 
forces  that  day,  and  produced  a  joint  issue.  I  got 
across  the  bay  to  Oakland  and  reported  to  the  superior 
editors,  who  were  foregathered  there,  and  was  im- 
mediately ordered  back  to  San  Francisco  in  command 
of  a  company  of  reporters  and  camera  men,  to  set  up 
local  headquarters,  and  begin  the  task  of  newsgather- 
ing.     The  paper  was  to  be  printed  in  Oakland. 

We  obtained  a  small  tow-boat,  which  the  twenty- 
odd  men  on  board  crowded  badly.  Among  our 
number  was  Mr.  Samuel  Shortridge,  the  lawyer,  who 
had  begged  his  way  across  in  our  company  as  nobody 
save  soldiers,  physicians,  priests,  nurses,  newspaper- 
men, and  other  regular  assistants  at  disasters,  was  per- 
mitted to  get  back  into  the  city  once  he  had  left  it. 


122  The  High  Romance 

It  was  a  gay  trip.  Our  skipper  turned  out  to  be 
blind  drunk,  and  our  boat  went  staggering,  and  turn- 
ing eccentric  half -circles,  and  now  and  then  trying  to 
turn  a  somersault,  through  a  heavy  sea.  At  last  two 
of  us  had  to  stand  on  either  side  of  the  wheel,  hold- 
ing up  our  skipper  and  making  him  steer  some  sort 
of  reasonable  course  for  the  other  side. 

We  ricocheted  our  way  close  to  Alcatraz  Island. 
Telegraph  Hill,  Nob  Hill,  Russian  Hill,  were  blazing 
like  cosmic  torches,  gigantic  tongues  of  red  fire  going 
up  straight  into  the  still  air  beneath  the  black  canopy 
of  smoke. 

Mr.  Shortridge  has  a  very  deep  voice  and  a 
singularly  impressive  deliberation  and  distinctness  of 
utterance.  He  is  a  celebrated  orator.  He  felt  moved 
to  make  a  speech  on  this  occasion.  He  said,  staring 
at  the  three  burning  hills:     "Lord  God  Almighty!" 

I  heave  heard  many  speeches;  thousands  of  them 
I  suppose..  Perhaps  ten  of  them  were  good  speeches. 
But  this  one  remains  unique  at  once  in  its  ap- 
propriateness and  its  effect  upon  those  who  heard  it. 
All  vain  words  were  banished;  all  useless  thoughts 
were  swept  away.  Today  I  may  string  words  to- 
gether, so  long  after  that  mighty  moment;  but  then 
only  the  high  names  of  God  could  fit  the  occasion. 

We  landed  near  Fort  Mason.  I  at  once  set  about 
the  business  of  hiring  headquarters.  After  several 
vain  efforts  I  finally  succeeded  in  striking  a  great 
bargain ;  I  hired  Harbor  View  Park,  the  whole  estab- 
lishment. This  comprised  a  bathing  beach,  a  bowl- 
ing alley,  a  bar-room,  a  well-stocked  larder,  enclosed 
by  a  high  fence.     It  is  vanished  now. 

I  also  hired  a  motor  car  and  sent  a  reporter — 


\ 


The  City  That  Never  Was  123 

better  known  today  as  Frederick  Ferdinand  Moore, 
war  correspondent  and  novelist — to  the  Presidio 
for  my  family.  I  had  heard  that  the  absence  of 
sanitary  arrangements  among  the  herded  thousands 
in  Golden  Gate  Park  and  the  Presidio  threatened  to 
cause  an  outbreak  of  disease.  In  Harbor  View  Park 
we  would  be  safe. 

In  less  than  an  hour  Moore  was  back  again,  with 
my  wife  and  children. 

Less  than  half  an  hour  later,  a  mounted  army 
officer  rode  to  the  gate  and  demanded  speech  with 
whoever  was  in  authority. 

"You  must  immediately  vacate  these  premises," 
said  he,  when  I  appeared.  "The  United  States 
Army  wants  them,  as  a  detention  camp  for  contagious 
diseases.  The  smallpox  patients  will  be  here  within 
the  hour." 

We  heard  and  perforce  obeyed.  Very  luckily, 
right  at  the  moment,  a  tugboat  from  Santa  Cruz  put  in 
at  the  little  wharf,  and  I  at  once  hired  it  for  a  despatch 
boat,  to  carry  copy  and  orders  back  and  forward 
between  Oakland  and  San  Francisco.  So  I  sent  my 
family  across  the  bay,  together  with  a  large  number 
of  other  refugees.  I  did  not  see  wife  or  children 
again  during  the  next  three  weeks. 

Then  came  the  new  search  for  headquarters.  It 
was  ended  quickly.  Mr.  Shortridge,  hearing  of  our 
predicament,  solved  it  out  of  hand.  He  placed  his 
own  large  and  beautiful  home  completely  at  my  dis- 
posal. He  threw  in  his  Chinee  cook,  to  make  the  job 
complete.  So  in  this  luxurious  office,  sleeping  three 
in  a  bed  with  Ah  Fung  to  cook  for  us,  we  lived  as 
newspapermen  have  rarely  lived  before.     Each  day  a 


124  The  High  Romance 

special  detail  went  out,  not  for  news,  but  for  grub. 
The  day's  work  was  over  at  six  or  seven  o'clock, 
because  the  copy  had  to  go  over  to  Oakland  very  early. 
Then  we  foregathered  from  our  various  jobs,  and  ate 
a  wonderful  dinner,  and  fleeted  the  evening  hours 
away  with  card  games,  and  stories,  a  punch  bowl, 
and  Mr.  Shortridge's  gorgeous  grand  piano,  the  one 
he  had  bought  especially  for  Paderewski,  his  client. 
Every  now  and  then  a  shock  of  earthquake  would 
make  the  house  rock  and  quiver.  Sometimes  these 
blows  were  so  heavy  that  we  went  running  into  the 
street.  Then  we  would  go  back  again  and  Freddy 
Moore,  or  somebody,  would  play  ragtime,  in  between 
the  shocks,  and  we  would  sing. 

"Through  a  small  Irish  town, 
Marched  a  troop  of  renown, 
In  the  year  seventeen  hundred  and  forty; 
With  a  hip,  hip,  hurray,  and  a  hip,  hip,  hurray, 
Tirri-row,  did-a-dow,  did-a-row-dow!" 

Ours  was  the  only  house  in  all  the  district  per- 
mitted to  bum  lights  after  eight  or  nine  o'clock;  and 
under  our  glowing  windows,  on  the  steps,  and  along 
the  curb,  the  neighbours  would  gather,  listening  to  our 
songs,  and  taking  comfort,  I  think,  in  our  jollity. 
One  night  we  gave  a  dinner  to  our  host;  ah,  such 
a  dinner!  We  brewed  an  earthquake  punch.  The 
whole  city  was  scoured  for  materials.  Somebody 
went  up  the  hill  to  Mayor  Schmitz's  house  and  re- 
turned with  beer,  and  a  bottle  of  Scotch.  Into  the 
big  bowl  went  beer,  and  Scotch,  and  benedictine,  and 
rye,  and  a  bottle  of  champagne,  and  brandy,  and 
creme  de  menthe — anything,  and  everything. 


The  City  That  Never  Was  125 

7.  The  City  That  Never  Was 

But  if  we  newspapermen  had  special  opportunities 
to  be  gay,  San  Francisco  in  general  was  also  high- 
hearted despite  the  darkness,  and  the  dread  of  doom. 

The  fire  had  on  the  third  day  been  stopped  at  Van 
Ness  Avenue. 

How  many  had  been  lost  in  the  tumbling  of  walls, 
and  the  destruction  of  cheap  tenement  houses,  and, 
still  more,  in  the  abominable  lodging  houses  south  of 
Market  Street  and  on  Barbary  Coast,  will  never  be 
known  till  the  real  Doomsday  happens  along;  but 
many  hundreds  are  known  to  have  perished.  As 
Mary  Austin  says:  "Large  figures  of  adventure 
moved  through  the  murk  of  these  days — Denman  go- 
ing out  with  his  gun  and  holding  up  express  wagons 
with  expensively  saved  goods,  which  were  dumped  out 
on  sidewalks  that  food  might  be  carried  to  unfed 
hundreds;  Father  Ramm  cutting  away  the  timbers 
on  St.  Mary's  tower,  while  the  red  glow  crept  across 
the  cross  out  of  reach  of  the  hose;  and  the  humble 
sacrifices — the  woman  who  shared  her  full  breasts 
with  the  child  of  another  whose  fountain  had  failed 
from  weariness  and  fright — ^would  that  I  had  her 
name  to  hold  in  remembrance!" 

Those  were  indeed  brave,  coloured,  splendid  days! 
San  Francisco's  soul  will  be  richer  and  stronger  and 
warmer  and  more  human  till  the  end  of  time  because 
of  them.  They  were  days  when  the  dream  of  Utopia, 
the  fabled  epoch  of  the  Golden  Age,  of  human 
brotherhood,  were  perhaps  as  nearly  realized  as  ever 
upon  this  troubled  world. 

Save  for  those  whom  death  had  struck  with  loss 


126  The  High  Romance 

and  pain,  through  taking  away  loved  ones,  the 
vast  majority  of  San  Franciscans  were  not  merely 
stoical — they  were  gallantly  brave,  romantically 
chivalrous,  superbly  generous.  In  my  goings  about 
through  the  worst  of  the  stricken  districts,  I  saw  many 
instances  of  loss  and  disaster,  but  my  memory  of  those 
days  is  not  stained  with  a  single  incident  of  cowardice 
or  of  meanness. 

The  obvious  thing  to  say,  is  that  social  conventions 
and  distinctions  were  laid  aside;  well,  so  they  were, 
but  that  only  expresses  a  small  part  of  the  truth. 
After  all,  the  only  place  where  men  are  truly,  quite 
literally  equal,  is  in  their  souls.  God  made  us  all, 
and  when  the  red  ruin  was  raging  from  the  water 
front  on  towards  Van  Ness  Avenue,  a  line  of  fire  ten 
miles  wide,  at  times,  and  later,  when  amid  the  shards 
and  dust  and  smoke  of  the  vanished  city,  men  and 
women  no  longer  felt  that  doomsday  was  upon  them, 
they  acted  toward  each  other  as  fellow  creatures,  as 
human  beings,  not  merely  as  employer  and  employe, 
rich  man,  poor  man,  beggar  man,  thief. 


Will  Irwin  wrote  an  excellent  description  of  Old 
San  Francisco,  which  he  called  "The  City-That-Was." 
Well,  the  glimpses  of  Paradise,  or  of  Utopia,  which 
came  to  me  while  San  Francisco,  riven  and  shattered, 
was  being  bound,  as  it  were,  upon  the  monstrous  pyre 
of  its  burning,  was  a  vision  of  the  City-That-Never- 
Was — the  city  of  the  world-wide  dream — the  city 
which  John  of  Patmos  saw  descending  out  of  heaven 
to  earth — out  of  aspiration  into  accomplishment — out 


The  City  That  Never  Was  127 

of  the  ideal  into  reality — the  city  of  peace  and  of 
brotherly  love — of  the  kingdom  of  God  come  upon 
earth.  The  City  that  never  was — that  never,  never 
was — yet  which  surely  is  to  be — which  surely  is  to  be! 


Perhaps  I  saw  everything  magnified  by  my  own 
mood — coloured  by  my  own  desire — nevertheless,  it 
is  true  that  for  several  marvellous  days  in  San  Fran- 
cisco we  lived  as  people  might  live  if  they  but  willed 
it  so — we  lived  a  life  of  good-will.  Nearly  all  the 
artificial  barriers  and  distinctions  with  which  we  iso- 
late class  from  class  and  person  from  person  were 
thrown  down  more  effectually  than  the  'quake  threw 
down  the  walls  of  houses — the  walls  of  evil  houses  and 
the  walls  of  churches  together.  For  days,  there  was 
no  use  for  money — there  was  nothing  to  buy  or  sell. 
Rich  and  poor  were  no  longer  either  rich  or  poor. 
The  bread  line  was  no  respecter  of  persons.  The 
women  of  the  Tenderloin  were  cared  for  by  virtuous 
women.  Food  was  in  common.  He  who  had  not 
asked  and  he  who  had  gave.  Your  neighbour  was  as 
yourself.  You  did  not  see  the  mote  in  his  eye  for 
there  was  no  distorting  beam  in  yours.  Generosity 
— kindness — pity — mercy — tenderness — all  the  brave 
and  beautiful  angels  of  the  heart  of  man  walked  in 
the  streets  of  the  shattered  city.  Oh,  yes,  there  were 
exceptions,  no  doubt.  I've  heard  of  them — but  I 
did  not  myself  see  them — but  it  is  God's  own  truth  I'm 
telling  you  when  I  say  that  the  great  disaster  which 
for  several  days  shut  off  San  Francisco  from  the 
world  that  still  went  on  in  the  ordinary  way,  brought 


128  The  High  Romance 

out  what  is  best,  and  what  is  strongest,  and  what  will 
finally  prevail  in  mankind — that  which  is  good. 
Those  three  or  four  days,  despite  all  the  dreadful 
things  that  happened  were  days  of  the  Golden  Age 
returned  again — and  to  me  their  memories  remain 
as  prophecies  of  the  time  to  come,  when  we  shall  all 
together  so  live  without  change  or  shadow  of  turning. 

Indeed,  it  almost  seemed  as  if  Goethe's  dream  was 
realized,  and  that  San  Francisco  had  been  shocked 
out  of  its  egoism  and  had  found  in  the  midst  of  this 
apocryphal  overthrowal  the  poet's  spring  of  good- 
ness, and  had  become  quite  literally  the  City  of 
Brotherly  Love,  the  City  of  Peace — the  City-that- 
Never-Has-Been.  .  .  . 

Ah  me! 

It  was  wonderful  to  hear  city  officials  who  were 
more  than  merely  suspected  of  the  most  brazen  graft 
declare  that  for  them,  "The  history  of  San  Francisco 
begins  on  April  18,  1906!"  It  was  thrilling  to  see 
sworn  foes  and  bitterly  opposed  factions  uniting  in 
the  new  bonds  of  mutual  service. 

It  was  sublime! 


And  it  was  also  evanescent  as  a  dream. 

Violent  reformations  of  cities  or  of  individuals  are 
dramatic,  but  impermanent.  .  .  . 

I  well  remember  how  frantically  we  had  to  work, 
one  night  not  long  after  the  worst  of  the  disaster  was 
over,  to  hurry  the  news  to  Oakland,  where  our  paper 
was  being  printed,  that  the  Board  of  City  Supervisors 
had  just  jammed  through  a  very  nefarious  piece  of 
special  privilege  legislation.  .  .  . 


The  City  That  Never  Was  129 

— ^And  we  know  how  soon  afterwards  the  malodor- 
ous graft  cases  made  the  name  of  San  Francisco  scan- 
dalous throughout  civilization. 

No.  Apparently  it  requires  something  more  pro- 
found, more  energetic,  than  an  earthquake,  to  reform 
a  city,  or  a  soul.  An  earthquake  may  destroy;  yes; 
and  so  will  many  other  things.  .  .  . 

But  what  will  save  us? 


CHAPTER  VI 

HELICON   HALL 

1.  Back  In  New  York 

SIX  weeks  after  the  shock,  my  turn  came  to  fall 
into  disfavour  with  my  superiors,  and  in  the 
row  that  followed,  I  quit  my  post,  and  returned  to 
the  East.  For  a  while  I  left  my  family  in  a  country 
town,  while  I  adventured  to  New  York  again;  penni- 
less, yet  determined  not  to  retreat  to  newspaper  work 
save  as  a  last  resource. 

A  friend  (what  would  have  become  of  me  all  my 
life  had  it  not  been  for  my  friends?)  took  me  in  and 
gave  me  shelter  until  I  could  earn  enough  money  to 
hire  a  room  and  a  typewriter. 

A  sympathetic  magazine  editor  realized  my  position 
and  promised  to  read  and  pass  upon  a  story  at  once. 
"So  go  home  and  get  busy,"  said  he. 

I  went  home;  sat  up  all  night  (drinking  coffee  to 
imitate  Balzac  in  at  least  one  particular!),  and  wrote 
two  stories.  By  nine  o'clock  I  was  at  the  editor's 
office. 

"Come  back  at  ten,"  said  he. 

For  an  hour  I  sat  on  a  bench  in  Madison  Square 
Park  juggling  with  my  nerves  in  an  effort  to  achieve 
equilibrium  of  spirit — and  of  body,  too,  for  I  shivered 
despite  the  warm  September  sun. 

I  had  only  one  dime  left,  and  my  friend's  house 

130 


Helicon  Hall  131 

was  far  away  in  the  remoter  parts  of  Brooklyn.  If 
the  stories  did  not  suit,  I  would  be  in  a  desperate  fix. 

Yet,  I  wanted  a  drink. 

Should  I  or  should  I  not  spend  my  dime,  and  take 
a  chance? 

I  tossed  for  it.  Heads  came — or  tails — I  forget 
which.  Anyhow,  it  meant,  "Take  a  drink."  And  I 
did  so.     I  drank  to  the  success  of  the  stories. 

At  ten  I  entered  the  office.  "A  cent  a  word  for  one 
yam.  So  here's  a  check  for  thirty  dollars;  the  other 
story  is  a  lemon.  For  God's  sake  never  offer  such  a 
story  anywhere,"  said  the  concise  editor. 

I  thanked  him  for  the  check;  then  my  blood  stirred; 
and  I  offered  to  bet  him  a  dinner  that  the  story  he  had 
turned  down  was  the  better  of  the  two;  and  I  would 
prove  it  by  selling  it  somewhere  else. 

And  a  few  weeks  later  I  had  the  ineffable  satis- 
faction of  asking  him  please  would  he  cash  a  check 
for  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars,  as  another 
magazine  had  given  me  three  cents  a  word  for 
the  tale  despised  and  rejected  of  him  on  the  one  cent 
basis. 

I  hope  the  editor  did  not  consider  me  too  cocky, 
but  I  fear  perhaps  he  did,  to  judge  by  the  note  he  sent 
me. 

.  .  .  "Was  glad  to  hear  you  have  got  the  half -Nel- 
son-strangle hold  on  the  publishers.  Get  them  down 
on  the  floor  three  points  and  keep  them  there.  It 
might  occasionally  help  things  along  if  you  break  a 
back  or  two,  or  slip  an  ear  out  of  place.  In  any  event, 
dislocate  an  arm  once  in  a  while,  and  do  a  little 
gouging." 

This  letter  tells  its  authorship  plainly;  only  Robert 


132  The  High  Romance 

H.  Davis — that  stalwart  friend  of  the  writers — can 
do  this  sort  of  thing  so  well. 

2.  An  Expensive  Coincidence 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Madame  Fate  displayed 
herself  in  her  most  mordantly  ironical  mood.  Yet, 
for  such  an  accomplished  artist  in  arranging  human 
trouble,  it  must  be  said  that  she  did  it  rather  crudely 
in  that  she  resorted  to  that  expedient  which  experts  in 
dramatic  technic  agree  to  deplore — the  long,  strong 
arm  of  coincidence.  Nevertheless,  it  was  a  very  re- 
markable coincidence.  Even  the  theatrical  manager 
who — as  it  were — staged  the  affair,  admitted  that 
fact;  and  surely  his  great  experience,  in  drama  and 
in  other  ways,  fitted  him  to  judge  the  matter. 

I  had  sold  a  story  to  Everybody's  Magazine  which 
when  published  achieved  quite  a  success;  mostly  be- 
cause of  circumstances  having  nothing  to  do  with  its 
literary  merits.  The  story  dealt  wifii  an  anarchist 
inventor  who  devises  a  machine  that  will  disintegrate 
the  physical  atom,  or  neutralize  the  power  of  gravity 
— I  really  forget  which;  but  something,  anyhow, 
very  dreadful  and  ultra-scientific.  After  giving  due 
warning  of  his  purpose  by  means  of  signals  written 
on  the  clouds  above  New  York,  he  proceeds  to 
destroy  the  city,  this  modem  Babylon,  as  he  terms 
it;  beginning  with  the  Flatiron  Building,  and  finally 
wrecking  most  of  the  town  before  he  is  captured 
and  disposed  of.  The  magazine  gave  the  story 
several  full-page  pictures,  and  it  caught  the  fancy  of 
many  readers.  The  Evening  World  seized  upon  the 
occasion  to  print  a  lurid  half -page  special,  based  on 


Helicon  Hall  133 

the  idea:  "What  if  somebody  DOES  discover  such  a 
thing,  and  then — goes  to  it?"  The  cigar  store  in  the 
Flatiron  Building  borrowed  the  artist's  paintings  from 
which  the  illustrations  were  reproduced,  and  exhibited 
them  in  its  windows. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this,  my  wife  said  to  me:  "Why 
don't  you  make  a  play  from  it?" 

"A  play?     Why—" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  a  real  play;  I  mean  a  Coney 
Island  spectacle,  or  vaudeville  stunt.  The  idea  has 
great  possibilities." 

She  was  right — as  she  so  often  is.  I  agreed  with 
her;  which  doesn't  happen  quite  so  often.  Not  know- 
ing the  theatrical  ropes,  I  went  to  a  friend  who  did. 
He,  too,  thought  that  the  idea  had  possibilities.  He 
agreed  to  collaborate;  he  to  attend  to  the  business 
3ide,  I  to  write  the  play,  with  his  assistance  in  con- 
struction. 

"The  Mortimers  are  looking  for  an  idea  right 
now,"  said  my  friend.  "Something  to  use  as  the 
central  feature  of  the  new  show  which  will  be  open- 
ing soon.     I'll  get  busy." 

A  day  or  two  later  he  called  me  on  the  'phone  to 
tell  me  that  he  had  seen  the  press  agent  for  the 
Mortimers,  and  the  various  managers  of  the  theatre, 
including  the  man  who  handled  the  electrical  and 
mechanical  effects.  "And  they're  all  strong  for  our 
stuff,"  said  my  collaborator.  "They  haven't  an  idea 
outside  of  ours;  they  all  say  so.  It  certainly  looks 
good.  Mortimer  himself  is  out  of  town,  but  will  be 
back  in  a  day  or  two.  They  think  he  will  jump  for 
this.  It  will  mean  a  run  all  winter,  and  all  next  sum- 
mer at  Coney  Island." 


134  The  High  Romance 

I  was  living  directly  opposite  the  theatre  in  ques- 
tion, and  my  wife  and  I  would  sit  near  the  window 
and  figure  out  what  we  would  do  with  all  the  royalty 
money  which  would  soon  be  streaming  into  the  huge 
building  over  the  way.  Of  course,  this  wasn't  Art; 
but,  anyhow,  it  looked  like  real  money;  and  even  Art 
looks  at  her  lover  with  a  singular  feebleness  of  ap- 
peal when  her  rival.  Golden  Dollars,  begins  to  make 
eyes. 

"Hello,  hello!"  my  friend  telephoned  one  day. 
"Come  right  down  to  my  office.  Mortimer  is  back, 
and  wants  to  see  you  right  away." 

I  was  in  his  office  promptly,  you  may  believe  me. 

"You're  to  see  Mortimer  at  twelve  o'clock.  Now, 
remember — don't  sign  any  contract;  don't  agree  to 
any  terms.  Leave  all  that  to  me.  You're  simply 
to  talk  to  him  about  the  play,  and  how  to  handle  it. 
Get  back  here  as  soon  as  you  can,  and  I'll  get  busy." 

I  was  at  the  office  of  the  great  manager  at  the 
appointed  time.  I  sent  in  my  card.  I  was  kept 
waiting  some  little  while;  not  long  enough  to  make 
me  feel  sliglited,  but  long  enough,  oh,  quite,  to  make 
me  understand  that  it  was  Mortimer  at  whose  door 
I  sat;  the  great  Mortimer;  who  was,  if  not  the  foster- 
father  of  American  drama,  at  least  its  uncle. 

By  and  by,  I  was  sent  for.  I  was  led  through 
office  after  office,  until  at  last  the  sanctum  sanctorum 
was  achieved;  where  the  great  man  sat  enthroned  at 
his  desk,  with  his  heads  of  department,  ten  or  twelve 
of  them  at  least,  seated  by  and  about  him. 

Most  courteously  he  received  me.  There  was  no 
hint  of  that  haughtiness  which  great  men  in  the  world 
of  drama  and  literature  are  fabled  to  display  toward 


Helicon  Hall  135 

the  timid  aspirants.  On  the  contrary,  no  uncle  could 
have  been  kinder,  or  more  considerate  in  his  man- 
ner. 

"So,  this  is  the  author  of  that  wonderful  story!" 
he  exclaimed,  heartily  wringing  my  hand.  "I  read 
it  with  such  pleasure,  Mr.  Williams.  And  it  has  been 
so  successful,  too.  Well,  well!  And  now,  let  us 
get  down  to  business.  We  are  soon  going  to  open, 
and  we  are  about  to  rush  work  on  our  central  feature. 
That's  where  you  come  in,  Mr.  Williams.  You  see, 
it's  most  amazing,  really — you  see,  your  little  idea — 
why,  upon  my  word,  it's  a  wonderful  coincidence,  but 
your  idea  is  absolutely  the  duplicate  of  a  play  which 
we've  had  in  our  safe  for  the  past  three  months 
or  more.  The  author,  however,  is  quite  unknown, 
and  as  your  story  has  created  such  wide  attention,  I 
would  like  to  use  your  name  on  our  bill-boards  and 
program  and  newspaper  notices,  as  the  real  author. 
It  will  give  you  great  publicity,  Mr.  Williams.  But, 
of  course,  as  you  are  not  the  author — well,  you  will 
see  for  yourself  that  I  couldn't  offer  you  any 
money.  ..." 

I  am  afraid  my  crude.  Occidental  mind  had  diffi- 
culty in  taking  this  in,  and  assimilating  it,  in  a  proper 
manner.  I  am  even  afraid  I  jumped  up  and  said  rude 
and  nasty  things  about  robbery,  and  coincidence  be 
damned.  Why  I  did  not  rush  at  great  little  Morti- 
mer, in  my  hasty  wrath,  due  to  my  inability  to  recog- 
nize the  wonderful  nature  of  the  literary  coincidence 
which  he  was  relating,  I  to  this  day  cannot  under- 
stand. .  .  . 

I  went  back  to  my  collaborator.  He  threw  up  his 
hands,  slumped  into  his  chair,  looked  at  me  help- 


136  The  High  Romance 

lessly,  and  murmured:  "Anarchists  destroying  New 
York  won't  be  just  a  magazine  yarn,  if  this  sort  of 
thing  keeps  on!"  And  so  hard  was  it  for  him  to  un- 
derstand the  coincidence,  that  he  sent  me  to  one  of 
the  leading  lawyers  of  the  town,  to  see  if  "something 
couldn't  be  done." 

The  lawyer  listened  carefully,  then  he  sighed, 
offered  me  a  choice  cigar,  and  said:  "I  wonder  if 
you  will  take  my  advice?  You  are  a  young  man — 
and  one  of  your  names  is  Irish,  so  I  daresay  you 
won't;  but  if  you  could  take  my  advice,  you'd  go  back 
to  Mr.  Mortimer,  and  get  the  advertising.  You 
haven't  a  chance  on  earth  to  get  any  money." 

But  I  could  not  take  his  advice.  From  our  win- 
dows, a  little  later,  my  wife  and  I  watched  the  crowds 
pouring  into  the  theatre,  where  the  coincidental  play 
ran  all  winter  long;  and  all  the  ways  we  might  have 
used  the  money  we  did  not  get,  mocked  us  like  a  flight 
of  chimerae.  .  .  . 

But  it  was  a  remarkable  coincidence. 

3.  The  Red  Flag  Of  Revolt 

I  went  on  with  hack  work.  I  did  Sunday  news- 
paper "specials,"  and  more  short  stories  for  cheap 
magazines;  I  wrote  a  serial  of  30,000  words  in  five 
days;  and  another  in  twelve  days,  and  sold  them  both 
at  a  cent  a  word.  I  wrote  a  handbook  for  the  use  of 
commercial  travellers;  I  wrote  a  hundred  leaflets  for 
an  advertising  manager.  Soon  my  family  was  with 
me;  we  rented  a  flat,  and  furnished  it,  partly  with 
new  things,  partly  with  furniture  left  in  storage  when 
we  went  West,     AU  this  was  more  or  less  magnificent 


Helicon  Hall  137 

(for  us!),  but  it  was  not  war  as  we  wished  to  make 
war.  I  was  not  writing  what  I  wanted  to  write;  still 
I  was  a  slave  to  the  machine-made  in  writing. 

So  I  seized  every  possible  chance  to  work  upon  a 
new  novel  which  I  had  begun  immediately  after  my 
return  from  San  Francisco,  and  at  last  I  finished  it, 
and  began  to  offer  it  to  the  publishers. 

Upon  the  success  of  this  novel  we  built  our  hopes. 
It  was  making  a  decidedly  good  impression.  Several 
publishers  seriously  considered  its  purchase;  and  one 
house  at  last  said  that  if  I  would  make  the  book  longer, 
and  strengthen  it  in  certain  places,  they  would  issue 
it  among  the  spring  books  of  1907.  I  went  to  work 
upon  it  zealously.  At  last  the  dawn  of  my  real  life 
seemed  breaking. 

That  novel  was  to  speak  the  magic  word,  the  "Open 
Sesame,"  which  would  throw  down  the  rocky  walls 
hemming  me  in,  and  give  me  the  long-sought  treasure 
of  success.  I  called  it  "The  Red  Flag  of  Revolt," 
and  it  was  drawn  very  largely  from  my  own  expe- 
riences, expressing  my  own  philosophy.  It  was  in 
essence  a  glorification  of  the  power  of  the  human 
will.  Its  hero  was  (of  course! )  a  consumptive  writer, 
burdened  with  poverty,  crippled  by  ignorance,  sur-  *^ 
rounded  with  unsympathetic  conditions,  yet  dimly 
conscious  of  a  higher  destiny.  He  breaks  down  with 
a  hemorrhage.  Instead  of  regarding  it  as  the  signal 
of  failure,  the  symbol  of  death,  he  wills  to  make  it 
the  red  flag  of  his  revolt — the  revolt  of  his  will,  of  his 
soul,  against  all  that  would  hamper  or  drag  him  down 
to  defeat  with  his  message  still  unspoken.  So  he  sets 
his  will:  and  goes  forth  into  the  wilderness:  he  fights, 
and  he  conquers;  he  gains  love,  health,  and  success;* 


138  The  High  Romance 

the  red  flag  of  revolt  becomes  the  brilliant  banner  of 
his  triumph,  the  symbol  of  his  personal  power,  the 
heraldic  device  betokening  the  self-sufficient  and  dom- 
inating "I."  .  .  . 

And  now,  with  my  hero  (a  self-portrait,  Oh,  of 
course!)  I,  too,  was  at  last  conquering  my  own  way, 
by  the  strength  of  my  own  will.  Or  so,  anyhow,  it 
then  seemed  to  me.  The  dawn  of  a  new  day  ap- 
peared to  be  at  hand. 

And  so  indeed  it  was — only,  again,  as  so  often 
before,  it  came  in  a  form  of  which  I  had  not 
dreamed;  it  brought  the  opening  of  a  new  adventure 
instead  of  the  ending  of  the  old. 

4.  The  Co-operative  Home  Colony 

While  with  high  hopes  I  was  working  upon  my 
novel,  I  joined  the  "co-operative  home  colony"  estab- 
lished by  Upton  Sinclair  and  a  group  of  other  radicals 
and  "advanced  thinkers,"  at  Englewood,  in  New  Jer- 
sey; a  pleasant  suburb  of  well-to-do  business  and 
"leisure  class"  people  (as  we  of  Helicon  Hall  would 
say),  and  their  parasites  and  purveyors.  It  was 
snugly  situated  behind  the  Palisades,  overlooking  the 
Ramapo  Valley,  and  only  an  hour's  travel  from  the 
heart  of  New  York. 

I  was  not  formally  a  Socialist,  then — or  even  later 
on — however  much  I  sympathized  with  the  point  of 
view  of  Socialism,  and  thoroughly  as  I  shared  its 
hostility  toward  commercialism.  So  it  was  not  as  a 
Socialist  that  I  joined  the  colony.  I  went  in  the  expec- 
tation of  finding  congenial  society,  pleasant  surround- 
ings, and  relief  from  the  worries  and  cares  of  house- 


Helicon  Hall  139 

keeping  in  a  New  York  flat,  in  which  I  had  to  do  my 
own  work,  and  where  there  were  two  children  to  be 
considered  when  I  desired  privacy  and  quiet.  Also, 
of  course,  there  was  the  interest  of  the  adventure 
itself.  Helicon  Hall  was  a  social  experiment;  and  it 
attracted  great  attention  in  the  press. 

Upton  Sinclair  I  had  known  through  correspondence 
for  some  time.  An  essay  of  his  attacking  the  super- 
ficial and  mediocre  aspects  of  American  magazine 
literature  had  drawn  from  me  a  warm  message  of  ap- 
proval and  congratulation.  He  responded,  and  we 
kept  up  an  interchange  of  letters  for  some  time. 
Then  I  drifted  westward,  and  lost  touch  with  the 
literary  world  of  New  York;  while  Sinclair  emerged 
from  his  garrets  and  tents — wherein  for  years  he  had 
been  making  his  fight — and  achieved  the  tremendous 
success  of  "The  Jungle." 

It  was  shortly  after  this  event  that  I  returned 
from  wrecked  and  ruined  San  Francisco,  and  found 
Sinclair  famous,  and  established  in  Helicon  Hall. 
So  I  wrote  to  him  asking  if  his  roster  of  colonists  was 
complete. 

"Come  and  see  for  yourself,"  he  replied. 

So  we  went,  my  wife  and  I;  we  saw;  and  we  were 
conquered  by  the  varied  attractions  of  the  colony.  It 
would  be  a  rare  and  rather  wonderful  adventure,  so 
we  thought,  to  live  in  Helicon  Hall. 

So  it  proved  to  be,  indeed;  and  if  it  turned  out  to 
be  much  more  of  an  adventure  than  in  our  most  ad- 
venturous mood  we  would  have  bargained  for,  well, 
there  is  no  sense  in  complaining;  such  is  the  inevitable 
hazard  of  all  forms  of  adventure;  namely,  the  risk  of 
getting  too  much  of  a  good  thing. 


140  The  High  Romance 

5.  The  Suburb,  And  The  Colony 

Both  Helicon  Hall  and  Englewood  were  in  their 
way  typical  and  significant  products  of  the  time- 
spirit.  Englewood  was  a  pleasant  suburb,  secluded, 
yet  convenient,  with  its  Country  Club  and  golf  course 
and  private  schools  and  motor  cars,  and  college-bred 
business  men  going  to  and  returning  from  Wall  Street, 
or  the  Courts,  or  the  great  commercial  houses  of  New 
York,  and  their  fashionable  women-folk  and  children. 
It  was  one  of  the  many  similar  strongholds  of  the 
employing,  or  official  and  professional  classes,  near 
New  York;  homes  of  the  average  aristocracy  of  the 
commercial  world,  not  the  great  millionaires,  but  the 
rank  and  file  of  the  hierarchy  of  our  dollar  system  of 
society.  Safe,  sane,  conservative;  average,  normal, 
suave,  smooth,  conventional;  all  the  words  and 
phrases  of  this  ilk  belong  to  Englewood.  On  the 
other  hand.  Helicon  Hall,  stranded  in  the  midst  of 
all  this,  like  a  gypsy  van  stopping  in  a  Methodist 
camp-meeting,  and  tlirobbing  with  a  perpetual  brain- 
storm of  radicalitis! 

6.  The  House  Of  Strange  Souls 

It  was  a  queer  place  surely;  this  Helicon  Hall! 
Incongruous,  yet  ironically  appropriate  as  well,  to 
find  it  in  an  ultra-respectable,  ultra-conventional, 
bourgeois  suburb  like  Englewood. 

I've  been  told — ^heaven  only  knows  with  what  truth 
— that  it  owed  its  existence  to  a  dream — the  dream  of 
a  schoolmaster  at  that!  According  to  the  legend,  this 
schoolmaster  was  plagued  by  restless  ideas  and  ideals; 


Helicon  Hall  141 

poor  man,  the  Time  spirit  had  thrown  one  of  its  many 
tentacles  about  him.  He  was  not  content  to  teach 
as  he  had  been  taught,  and  to  trot  along  the  main 
highway  of  his  profession,  safely,  soundly,  and  con- 
servatively, and  thus  make  a  quiet  living,  and  get 
through  the  world  with  the  minimum  of  botheration 
and  trouble.  No;  he  felt  obliged  to  experiment,  and 
to  seek  out  many  inventions;  a  restless  item  of  a  rest- 
less age. 

The  education  of  boys  in  aristocracy  seems  to  have 
been  his  obsession.  His  boys  were  to  be  made  into 
"gentlemen,"  after  some  ratiier  vague,  neo-Nietzsch- 
ean  notions  of  gentility  and  individualism.  Each 
was  to  have  his  valet,  if  he  so  desired;  and  each  was 
to  be  treated  with  the  most  distinguished  considera- 
tion, on  the  part  of  the  tutors,  and  other  servants,  and 
encouraged  to  express  his  own  innate  temperament. 

The  plan  and  construction  of  the  school  building 
which  was  to  be  the  outward  and  visible  manifestation 
of  the  inward  grace  of  American  aristocracy  was  re- 
vealed to  this  Nietzschean  shaper  of  souls  while  he 
was  voyaging  on  the  river  Nile. 

Perhaps  the  spirit  of  some  sardonic  old  Egyptian 
adept  of  black  magic  overbrooded  the  spirit  of  this 
Yankee  "professor,"  as  he  dreamed  of  his  new-fangled 
school,  and  of  the  boys  in  whose  persons  he  would 
influence  his  country  and  his  age.  Anyhow,  he 
dreamed  his  dream,  and  coming  back  to  America — 
where  ideas  need  only  to  be  money-producing  or  else 
starkly  fantastic  to  find  support — he  secured  a  patron 
(probably  a  patroness!)  to  back  him,  and  built  Heli- 
con Hall,  and  started  his  school  for  suckling  aristo- 
crats. 


142  The  High  Romance 

It  failed.  I  don't  know  just  why.  I  did  not  get 
all  the  story.  Maybe  the  dreamer's  chemical  con- 
stituents wore  out,  and  he  died,  or  perhaps  his  im- 
mortal soul  got  tired  of  the  task  of  inoculating  the 
sons  of  American  business  men  with  the  virus  of  an 
artistic  aristocracy,  and  shook  off  the  clumsy  encum- 
brance of  its  chemical  apparatus  and  went  forth  seek- 
ing other  adventures  through  vistas  impossible  to 
New  Jersey.  I  don't  know;  but,  at  any  rate,  Helicon 
Hall  shut  up  shop  as  a  school.  I  think  it  was  a  board- 
ing house  for  a  while;  but  it  was  empty  when  Upton 
Sinclair  came  along,  just  after  the  success  of  his  book, 
"The  Jungle"  had  made  him  rich  and  famous — in  the 
relative  sense — and  bought  it  for  his  "co-operative 
colony,"  and  he  and  a  mixed  assemblage  of  socialists, 
"intellectual  anarchists,"  single  taxers,  vegetarians, 
spiritualists,  mental  scientists.  Free  Lovers,  suffra- 
gists, and  other  varieties  of  Ism-ites,  moved  in  and 
took  the  place  of  the  neo-Nietzschean  schoolmaster 
and  his  brood  of  infant  aristocrats. 

Many  of  the  colonists,  of  course,  were  writers  of 
one  type  or  another.  They  expressed  their  immortal 
souls,  or  their  chemical  reactions,  in  novels  and  plays, 
and  poems,  and  speech;  especially  in  speech. 

Never  since  the  episode  of  the  tower  of  Babel,  I 
dare  say,  has  there  existed  a  place  so  saturated  in 
language  as  Helicon  Hall.  Everybody  there  was 
more  or  less  of  the  "advanced,"  or  "radical"  order 
of  chemical  make-up,  or  of  soul  development;  and  it 
is  a  scientific  fact  that  this  type  is  continually  effer- 
vescing in  monologue,  sizzling  in  conversation,  det- 
onating in  debate,  fuming  in  argument,  flashing  in 


Helicon  Hall  143 

expressions  of  opinion,  and  exploding  in  many  the- 
ories. 

The  Hall  was  a  tremendous,  oblong,  wooden 
building  with  a  huge  court  in  its  centre  roofed  with 
glass,  with  a  fountain  and  miniature  brooks,  and  rub- 
ber trees  and  palms  growing  twenty  or  thirty  feet  high. 
Little  fish  of  gold  and  silver  swam  in  the  brooks.  At 
one  end  was  a  vast  fireplace  open  on  all  four  sides, 
about  which  fifty  or  sixty  people  could  sit  or  lounge. 
Near  this  was  a  pipe  organ.  Sometimes  by  night, 
when  a  glowing  fire  of  crimson  coals  was  suspended 
in  the  iron  basket  in  the  fireplace,  and  the  lights  were 
turned  out,  and  the  moon  streamed  dimly  through  the 
glass  roof,  splashing  like  noiseless  silver  water  on  the 
palm  trees  in  the  court,  and  some  one  played  a  violin, 
or  something  on  the  organ,  and  the  talk  mellowed  and 
modulated  from  sociological  arguments  to  a  more 
meditative  mood,  then  it  seemed  as  if  some  influence 
sweet  and  pensive,  friendly  and  melting,  flowed  like 
incense  over  and  through  us  all;  and  for  a  while  we 
could  dream  that  our  dreams  could  and  would  be 
realized — and  the  Socialist  lived  for  the  moment  in 
his  co-operative  commonwealth,  and  the  anarchist  in 
Egoland,  and  the  spiritualists  divined  the  presence 
of  their  departed  friends  in  the  swaying  shadows  by 
the  fountain,  and  all  the  ideals  and  dreams  and  fan- 
tasies, and  all  the  impossible  illusions  of  that  assem- 
blage of  modem  dreamers  seemed  to  materialize, 
seemed  to  be  real  things,  and  the  world  of  fact  evap- 
orated quite  out  of  existence. 

— At  other  times,  though — Ah,  then  matters  were 
different!     For  one  thing  the  partitions  were  of  the 


r 


144  The  High  Romance 

thinnest  between  many  of  the  rooms;  and  nearly 
every  second  room  (to  draw  it  mildly)  contained  a 
temperamental  person  with  a  pen  or  a  typewriter  and 
a  message  for  the  world — or  else  a  definite  job  of 
literary  work  to  be  put  out  of  hand  as  soon  as  possible. 
That  flimsy  house  fairly  throbbed  with  criss-cross  cur- 
rents of  diverse  temperaments  and  purposes;  also 
with  the  shouts  and  yells  of  children,  and,  of  course, 
with  Talk,  Talk,  Talk!  In  one  comer  of  the  second 
floor,  where  most  of  the  living  rooms  were,  Grace 
MacGowan  Cooke  and  her  sister  Alice  MacGowan 
were  industriously  dictating  novels.  A  door  or  two 
away  Edwin  Bjorkman  was  philosophizing  amid  walls 
packed  to  the  ceiling  with  books  in  Swedish,  Nor- 
wegian, Danish,  German,  French,  and  English. 

Sinclair  Lewis  and  Allen  Updegraff  were  down  in 
the  cellar,  neglecting  the  furnace  as  they  sought  for 
rhymes  or  stories.  Somewhere  else.  Professor  Wil- 
liam Pepperell  Montagu  was  working  at  his  problem 
of  a  Thinking  Machine  which  was  to  prove  the  chem- 
ico-mechanical  theory  of  the  origin  of  human  intel- 
ligence. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  wild  night  when  Sadakichi 
Hartmann,  the  German-American- Japanese  poet- 
painter,  visited  us.  Seven  or  eight  feet  tall,  (or  so 
he  seemed)  with  a  face  like  a  grotesque  mask.  With 
him  was  his  friend,  Jo  Davidson,  the  East  Side 
sculptor,  and  another  friend,  the  Tramp  Madonna, 
and  also  a  big,  black  bottle  of  whiskey. 

He  sat  by  the  fire  theorizing  on  Art  and  Life  and 
Love — Free  art,  Free  life,  and  Free  love,  of  course 
— until  long  after  midnight,  filling  the  sonorous  shell 
of  the  court  with  talk, — talk — talk;  until  at  last  Ed- 


Helicon  Hall  145 

ward  Bjorkman,  in  a  fluttering  bathrobe,  with  flashing 
eyes  and  a  head  looking  like  the  head  of  a  refined 
and  elegant  Ibsen,  rushed  forth  from  his  bedroom  and 
drove  Sadakichi  and  the  sculptor  and  the  lady  and 
the  bottle  out  into  the  bitter  night,  and  into  the  news- 
papers next  day. 


7.  Strange  Souls 

The  room  next  to  mine  was  occupied  by  a  stout, 
elderly  widow,  whose  walls  were  hung  with  "spirit 
portraits,"  and  who  was  ardent  in  the  faith  of  that 
most  pitiable  of  all  cults,  the  Spiritualists.  Existing 
in  a  continuous  tremor  of  morbid  sentiment,  she  saw 
forms  that  the  air  gave  up  for  her  vision  only,  and 
faces,  smiling  or  sad,  appeared  and  disappeared  in 
dusky  comers,  and  she  heard  voices  that  said:  "Deary, 
I  am  so  happy  over  here — all  your  friends  are  with 
me,  deary!" 

There  were  Christian  Scientists,  also ;  and  "Mental" 
Scientists — who  believed  in  the  transforming  power 
of  "affirmations,"  like  the  New  Thought  people,  but, 
they  said,  in  a  much  more  logical,  more  intellectual 
mode.  An  elderly  semi-hobo  man-of-all-trades  who 
attended  to  the  furnaces  after  the  youthful  socialist 
poets  from  Yale  were  relieved  from  the  task,  was  one 
of  our  most  advanced  radicals.  There  was  a  young 
Southerner  who  having  run  through  nearly  all  other 
formulas  was  thinking  of  trying  sequestration  in  a 
Benedictine  monastery.  There  were,  of  course,  nu- 
merous feminists,  devotees  of  Mrs.  Charlotte  Perkins 
Gilman,  and  George  Bernard  Shaw.     "Bernard  Shaw 


146  The  High  Romance 

says — "  was  a  phrase  you  heard  at  Helicon  Hall 
as  in  less  advanced  homes  you  hear,  "mother  says 
that  .  .  ." 

And  always  there  was  a  coming  and  going  of  vis- 
itors, who  for  the  most  part  were  themselves  repre- 
sentatives of  the  "advanced  movements";  singular 
cults  and  experiments  in  life  and  thought.  Lecturers 
and  writers  on  Sex,  on  Sociology,  on  Anarchism,  on 
Dress  Reform,  Child  Training,  Vegetarianism,  Fletch- 
erism.  Socialism,  and  all  the  other  modes  and  mani- 
festations of  the  restless  mind  of  the  age,  all  defiled 
through  Helicon  Hall,  like  a  Pageant  of  Eccentrics. 

There  were  also  a  few  first-class  intellects  there. 
Edwin  Bjorkman,  for  instance.  I  shall  always  feel 
a  sense  of  solid  satisfaction  in  my  memories  of  my 
communions  of  spirit  concerning  matters  of  art  and 
of  life  with  Edwin.  He  has,  indeed,  a  deep  vein 
of  the  truest  artistry  running  through  his  complex 
temperament  of  a  philosopher-reformer-poet-religious- 
mystic  searcher  after  the  Absolute.  And  Professor 
Montagu  was  not  one  of  the  intellectual  eccentrics; 
but  his  rigid  mechanical  view  of  life  had  no  appeal 
for  me. 

Sinclair  and  the  others,  in  varying  degrees,  rep- 
resented interests  with  which  it  was  not  in  my  nature 
to  affiliate,  but  yet  for  a  time  they  all  were  deeply  and 
sympathetically  interesting  to  me,  who  came  among 
these  radicals,  these  advanced  thinkers  and  heresiarchs 
after  my  lonely  years  in  newspaper  offices,  and  wan- 
derings here  and  there  in  many  parts  of  the  country. 
And  Helicon  Hall  was  a  vestibule,  as  it  were,  through 
which  I  entered  a  curious  tract  of  modem  American 
life,  and  from  it  radiated  many  of  the  vistas  of  ad- 


Helicon  Hall  147 

venture  which  we  shall  follow  as  these  pages  expand 
— the  tract  occupied  by  believers  in  strange  ideas  and 
the  followers  of  singular  systems  of  Life,  which  it 
fell  to  my  lot  to  explore — I  will  not  say  thoroughly, 
but  at  any  rate  most  adventurously,  as  I  sought  the 
trails  of  the  high  romance  which  eluded  me  in  Helicon 
Hall,  as  it  had  elsewhere. 

8.  The  River 

For  it  was  at  Helicon  Hall  that  the  problem  with 
which  so  much  of  my  life  has  been  concerned — the 
problem,  namely,  of  whether  we  are  immortal  souls 
or  merely  ephemeral  products  of  a  casual  chemico- 
mechanical  process,  began  to  press  upon  me  with  an 
irresistible  urgency.  My  quest  was  stimulated  by 
the  vertiginous  mixture  of  ideas  in  Helicon  Hall,  and 
also  by  many  solitary  communions  with  silence  and 
solitude,  on  the  verge  of  the  Palisades,  overlooking 
the  river,  gazing  at  the  great  city  which  has  given  me 
so  many  adventures. 

Helicon  Hall  stood  amid  a  grove  of  trees  apart 
from  the  village  and  not  very  far  from  the  top  of  the 
Palisades.  A  short  walk  brought  one  to  their  verge, 
and  I  often  took  that  walk,  in  the  afternoon,  after 
working  on  my  novel  during  the  day. 

The  snow  crunched  beneath  my  tread;  the  naked 
trees  threw  inky  shadows;  withered  leaves  clung  to 
a  few  desolate  branches.  The  broad  flood  of  the 
Hudson  looked  drab,  or  a  steely-grey,  or  a  murky 
brown ;  sometimes  dabbled  with  streaks  of  white  foam 
or  blotched  with  grey  fields  of  drifting  ice;  and  how 
solitary  was  its  atmosphere!  How  different  from 
its  summer  suggestion,  when  long  strings  of  loaded 


148  The  High  Romance 

or  empty  barges  and  canal  boats  are  briskly  drawn 
up  and  down,  and  the  passenger  steamers  pass  cov- 
ered with  flags,  and  swift  sailboats  and  rushing  motor 
boats  dot  it  all  over  with  accents  of  energy.  Now 
there  was  only  the  solitary  ferryboat  crossing  from 
One  Hundred  and  Twenty-eighth  Street.  In  the 
evening  when  it  was  lighted  up  it  somehow  seemed  a 
mournful  thing,  like  a  funeral  barge,  very  lonely  on 
the  immense  width  of  the  dusky  stream,  on  which,  as 
it  slowly  passed  from  shore  to  shore,  it  threw  the 
wavering  reflections  of  its  lights. 

Advancing  to  the  very  edge  of  the  cliff,  I  would 
stand  there.  Used  as  I  am  to  New  York,  there  is 
an  irresistible  attraction  for  me  in  almost  all  of  its 
aspects,  and  few  of  its  exterior  points  of  view,  I 
should  think,  can  surpass  in  interest  the  one  of  which 
I  am  speaking. 

It  is  invested  with  an  air  of  fine  style;  touched  with 
the  influence  of  something  elegaic,  something  roman- 
tic, almost  psychic;  as  though  some  magic  casement 
opened  in  the  atmosphere  at  this  point  to  permit  the 
vision  to  pierce  beneath  the  surface  aspects  of  the 
scene.  I  suppose  the  rugged  romantic  rocks  and 
splendid  forest  trees  of  the  Palisades,  and  the  broad 
river,  are  responsible  for  the  subtle  quality  of  the 
view  of  the  city  from  this  point;  and,  also,  there  is 
always  a  sort  of  hypnotic  eff'ect  produced  by  the 
running  water  of  a  river. 

Across  the  stream  there  is  the  pepper  box  ugliness 
of  Grant's  Tomb;  there  are  the  squat,  mushroom 
shapes  of  the  huge  gas-tanks;  a  train  crawls  along  the 
shore  trailing  a  snaky,  black  ribbon  of  smoke;  the 


Helicon  Hall  149 

cliff-like  formation  of  the  apartment  houses  along 
Riverside  Drive  glitters  at  a  thousand  points  where  the 
windows  catch  the  light ;  beyond  these  there  is  the  em- 
anating suggestion,  rather  than  the  actual  appearances 
of  the  crushed-together  vastness  of  New  York.  And 
how  many  times  I  have  wondered  at  the  effect  of 
silence,  and  of  immobility  as  well;  as  though  all  that 
has  been  said  of  the  roar  of  the  city,  and  of  its 
frenzy  of  action,  were  fables.  It  is  as  though  the 
hypnotic  river  had  woven  a  barrier  of  silence  around 
New  York,  or  as  though  its  population  had  been  en- 
chanted. 

At  the  hour  of  sunset  the  wizardry  is  intensified. 
Then  the  thousands  of  windows  in  the  tall  houses  flame 
or  smoulder  in  lines  of  blood  and  of  gold;  they  are 
blurred  and  lurid,  smoky  and  fuming;  or  clear,  hard, 
glittering,  and  cold,  according  to  atmospheric  con- 
ditions. Or  the  hour  after  sunset,  when  the  electric 
lights  along  the  Drive,  and  in  the  windows,  begin  to 
shine ;  beaming  steadily  or  pulsating,  after  the  fashion 
of  stars  and  planets ;  appearing  to  be  of  many  colours, 
all  pale,  like  lemon,  and  dim  violet,  and  withered 
lilac,  and  faint  mauve;  sometimes  diffused  and  misty, 
like  vague,  ghostly  radiations;  at  other  times  sharply 
defined,  like  a  myriad  of  clear,  emphatic  dots  and 
dashes. 

These  were  the  best  hours  for  one  to  stand,  prefer- 
ably alone,  at  this  point  of  view.  Or  in  the  nights 
when  the  mystery  of  moonlight  transmuted  the  river 
from  grey  water  into  a  flood  of  ether,  and  the  trees 
dripped  with  its  magic  foam,  and  the  lights  across  the 
stream  of  silver  and  dusky  ether  seemed  no  longer  to 


150  The  High  Romance 

be  those  of  New  York,  but  of  Sarrass,  the  Spiritual 
City,  or  of  Mount  Salvatch. 


9.  Visions  And  Desires 

And  my  thoughts  shaped  themselves: — "Millions 
of  human  beings  are  massed  together  over  there. 
Millions,  and  each  one  unique ;  each  one  an  individual, 
not-to-be-duplicated  spark  of  immortal  spirit  clothed 
about  with  tenements  of  flesh  and  bone;  a  Soul  that 
can  never  die;  a  Person,  destined  for  endless  expe- 
riences, of  which  living  in  New  York  is  a  mere  momen- 
tary fragment. 

"Or  else,  they  are  nothing  of  the  sort;  they  are  but 
casual  ephemera,  produced  (according  to  Professor 
Schaffer  of  the  British  Association  for  the  Advance- 
ment of  Science,  that  most  learned  man!)  as  a 
mechanical  result  of  certain  actions  and  reactions 
of  chemical  substances;  they  are  swirling  together 
intricately,  over  there,  each  one  seeking  its  own  in- 
stinctive desires  (these  also  being  the  result  of  chem- 
ical agencies),  like  a  swarm  of  summer  gnats!" 

And  then  a  wider  vision  would  come.  I  would 
grow  almost  objectively  aware  of  the  population  of 
the  great  city  in  a  way  never  to  be  forgotten. 
I  felt  the  tides  of  being  moving  around  and 
about  me;  the  people  going  to  and  fro  in  the 
streets,  and  beneath  the  streets;  and  across  the  North 
and  East  rivers  and  the  harbour  to  Staten  Island,  to 
Jersey,  and  Brooklyn,  and  Long  Island;  and  under 
the  rivers  in  the  tunnels;  and  on  the  rivers  in  the 
ferry  boats;  and  in  the  trolley  cars,  and  the  "L" 


Helicon  Hall  151 

trains,  and  the  subways,  and  the  steam  and  electric 
railroad  trains,  and  the  cabs,  automobiles,  stages. 
Men,  women,  youths,  maidens,  girls  and  boys.  To 
and  fro  they  pulsed.  They  thronged  the  theatres;  or 
the  parks,  or  the  streets;  and  their  houses,  everywhere; 
from  the  Waldorf-Astoria  or  the  roof  garden  of  the 
Hotel  Astor  to  the  fetid  tenements  of  the  Ghetto.  Mil- 
lions of  bodies — bedecked  in  silk;  or  hung  with  a 
dirty  rag; — lithe,  well-nourished,  gleaming  in  health; 
or  gaunt,  breaking  down,  torn  by  the  assaults  of  dis- 
ease. Millions  of  souls — from  the  soul  joyously 
ascending  in  ecstatic  aspirations  to  the  heights  of 
life;  to  the  purblind,  wounded,  scarred  and  ignorant 
soul  struggling  still  in  the  slime.  (But  struggling, 
always  struggling  to  rise,  to  escape!)  To  and  fro 
they  swept  on  the  tide  of  life  that  pulsed  through  the 
great  town;  myriads  of  them  eddying,  swirling, 
jostling  together  upon  interweaving  currents  of  des- 
tiny; the  strong,  the  weak,  the  alert,  the  dull,  the  noble, 
the  base:  each  and  every  one  a  distinct  and  different 
element  in  the  huge  alembic — the  alembic  in  which 
life  with  innumerable  reagents  was  testing  all,  and 
from  which  would  issue  the  men  and  women  of  the 
future.  And  of  all  these  myriads  the  greater  number 
by  far  were  doomed  to  suffer,  were  sentenced  to 
ignoble  and  endless  toil,  and  were  banished  from 
beauty.  Yet  all  these  poor  men  and  women,  and  all 
the  others,  too,  the  strong,  the  haughty,  the  proud  ones 
of  wealth  and  wider  life;  all,  all  were  my  brothers 
and  sisters;  and  all  were  awakening  to  a  dim,  troub- 
ling, bitterly-sweet  and  ever-growing  knowledge  of 
their  relationship  as  brothers  and  sisters.  All  were 
made  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood,  and  mind  and  soul; 


152  The  High  Romance 

and  they  were  ever  moving  forward  to  a  completer 
realization  of  this  fact  of  facts — the  truth  that  shall 
make  men  free,  the  truth  of  human  brotherhood. 
And  those  who  knew  the  truth  must  proclaim  it  far 
and  wide!  .  .  . 

And  as  I  saw,  here  and  there  upon  the  river,  lights 
flashing  forth  as  the  darkness  grew  deeper,  I  would 
think  of  the  light-houses  on  the  shore  of  the  sea  into 
which  the  river  runs,  and  the  swords  of  their  lamps 
that  pierce  the  night;  swords  of  the  Will  of  Man;  of 
man  in  his  long  warfare  against  the  dark  forces  that 
oppress  him. 

.  •  •  .  a  •  • 

Let  me  be  in  my  little  world  a  sword,  0  Will  of 
Man,  a  weapon  of  life! 

So  I  prayed;  and  I  prayed  also: 

When  I  forget  that  sad  company  of  the  poor  and 
lowly  whom  I  left  behind  me  in  the  subcellars  and 
stores  and  shops  and  tenements  from  which  I  have 
fought  upward  toward  free  life,  then  may  life  slay  me 
utterly! 

As  Life  would  do,  I  know,  if  I  proved  traitor,  no 
matter  how  high  the  apparent  place  my  apostacy 
might  temporarily  gain  me.  .  .  . 

■  •  •  •  •  •  •  ,   • 

And  so,  too,  for  the  most  part,  though  not  so  fan- 
tastically and  feverishly,  did  my  comrades  of  Helicon 
Hall  meditate  and  dream.  Like  one  of  the  best  of 
the  modem  writers  whose  ideas  greatly  moved  us,  H. 
G.  Wells,  we  desired,  one  way  or  another,  to  add  some- 
thing to  the  Book  of  the  Samurai. 

Nobody  can  understand  this  statement  who  has  not 


Helicon  Hall  153 

read  "Modem  Utopia,"  so  for  their  benefit,  unfor- 
tunate souls!  let  me  recall  that  in  this  book  Wells 
points  out  the  fact  that  no  worlds  are  ever  conquered 
save  by  men  who  carry  bibles  in  their  hands.  Those 
who  find  and  conquer  Utopia,  then,  must  possess  a 
Bible;  a  Book  of  Power.  In  this  book  will  be  put 
such  words,  said  or  written  by  men  and  women,  as 
embody  the  idea  of  the  Order;  the  order  of  men  and 
women  who  are  at  work  today  re-shaping  the  world, 
and  who  by  and  by  shall  rule  it. 

And,  Wells  goes  on  to  say,  at  first  the  book  must 
necessarily  contain  much  namby-pamby  and  mistaken 
stuff — it  cannot  be  at  once  made  beautiful  and  noble 
and  perfect.  .  .  .  Which  is  an  encouraging  remark 
to  some  of  its  would-be  contributors! 

The  only  editors  the  book  can  have  will  be  those 
who  need  its  message.  These  editors — I  may  put  the 
case — are  the  discerning  men  and  women  who  recog- 
nize and  act  upon  the  Great  Idea — which  is,  that  the 
Will  of  Man  can  make  a  world  fit  for  Man — a  happy 
and  contented  world  of  true  men  and  women,  a  real 
Utopia.  They  seek  and  utilize  the  inspiration  and 
the  plans  of  those  ever-increasing  writers  who  see  with 
Walt  Whitman  that  though  each  man  is  unique,  yet 
all  men  are  brothers;  and  that  men  can  truly  make 
new  worlds  out  of  old — all  that  is  necessary  is  to 
realize,  and  act  upon  the  realization  of,  the  truth 
whispered  by  the  Sea  Lady,  that  "there  are  better 
dreams"  than  this  dream  of  the  poor,  wretched  world 
we  have. 

So,  therefore,  even  my  dreams  may  be  useful.  My 
tale  of  myself  in  pursuit  of  my  dreams  is  not  a  singu- 
lar and  bizarre  phenomenon.     It  is  part  of  a  great 


154  The  High  Romance 

group  movement,  the  most  characteristic  and  impor- 
tant movement  of  thought  and  of  literature  in  these 
troubled  times.  Which  fact  gives  what  I  say  an  im- 
portance it  would  otherwise  lack.  For  a  multitu- 
dinous chorus  of  many  voices,  many  of  them  out  of 
tune,  and  uttering  frightful  discords,  it  is  true,  strives 
today  to  find  unity  and  harmony  as  the  Voice  of 
Man.  .  .  . 

All  who  are  instruments  of  the  Voice  of  Life — 
all  those  poets,  philosophers,  musicians,  tale  tellers, 
and  other  creative  artists,  who  are  moved  by  life  to 
be  the  voices  of  humanity — consciously,  or  uncon- 
sciously, work  toward  self  revelation.  And  even  al- 
though I  realize  that  my  own  effort  may  be  in  vain, 
I  still  think  the  effort  itself  may  be  of  some  value. 

It  is  one  more  story  of  the  human  soul  facing  the 
ineluctable  Mystery. 

For  to  me  the  final  fact  of  all  facts,  the  core  of  all 
things,  whether  of  a  sun  sparkle  on  a  wave,  or  the 
light  of  Sirius,  the  movements  of  an  insect,  or  the 
nature  of  man  or  superman,  is  Mystery. 

Nothing  can  be  more  self-evident  than  that  all  things 
in  life  are  but  parts,  phenomena,  of  the  pilgrimage 
of  the  soul  of  man  in  quest  of  mystery's  Solution. 
And  ever  as  we  pilgrims  of  the  quest,  we  searchers 
after  the  answer  to  the  riddle  of  existence,  solve  this 
or  that  minor  puzzle,  our  very  activities,  being  actions 
of  life,  weave  other  and  more  intricate  patterns  of 
Mystery — our  creative  labour  generates  harder  and 
deeper  tasks  in  the  womb  of  eternity;  and  ever,  al- 
ways, the  great  loom  of  life  spins  on,  weaving  the  cur- 
tains that  hang  before  the  shrine  of  the  Eternal.  .  .  • 


Helicon  Hall  155 

— A  little  picture  flashes  before  my  eyes  as  I  write 
of  ourselves  being  pilgrims  of  that  quest  whose  object 
is  to  find  tlie  answer  to  the  riddle  of  existence;  a  little 
picture  evoked  by  the  word  "pilgrims." 

— I  see  a  vast  desert;  night  at  hand,  and  the  sands 
are  grey.  A  caravan  has  travelled  a  great  distance. 
It  has  stopped  at  many  oases;  and  now,  reaching  a 
camping  place,  it  rests,  but  soon  will  go  on  again — 
on — on — on.  .  .  .  And  the  caravan  will  reach  other 
oases,  but  it  will  leave  them,  for  the  caravan  must 
go  on.  The  pilgrims  rest;  some  cook;  others  kneel  in 
prayer,  the  brown,  lean  faces  turned  toward  Mecca; 
camp  fires  twinkle,  and  the  stars  come  out;  and  around 
the  fires  sighs  mingle  with  laughter.  And  witli  intent 
eyes  watching  the  flames,  or  lifted  up  at  times  to 
look  at  the  stars,  or  to  peer  into  the  surrounding 
darkness,  the  men  and  women  and  children  gather 
together;  and  now  appear  those  who  tell  fortunes, 
and  who  write  letters  home  for  the  pilgrims,  and  who 
sing  songs,  and  tell  stories. 


— I,  too,  would  tell  a  story,  0  my  fellow  pilgrims, 
a  story  of  myself,  a  story  of  many  adventures,  some 
very  strange,  some  very  common,  some  evil,  some  that 
shame  me,  and  others  tliat  gladden  me  to  remember — 
the  adventures  of  a  man  who  roamed  the  world  in 
search  of  his  soul.  Far  away  from  tliis  beautiful 
shore  where  now  I  write  did  tlie  tale  of  my  quest 
begin — as  I  will  soon  relate — far  east  and  north,  in 
bleak  New  England,  where  the  Pilgrims  landed — 
again  that  word,  pilgrims — how  strange!  Can  it  be 
that  I  who  have  hated  tlie  Puritans  of  New  England 


156  The  High  Romance 

with  impatient,  hot  hatred,  can  gain  a  truer  vision  of 
them  by  remembering  that  they,  too,  were  pilgrims 
of  a  quest? 

10.  End  Of  Helicon  Hall 

Perhaps  those  solitary  hours  of  brooding  on  the 
Palisades  were  the  best  things  that  I  gained  by  my 
sojourn  at  Helicon  Hall.  Perhaps  the  sense  of  great 
wonder,  and  the  adumbrations  of  the  inner  mysteries 
of  Life,  which  came  to  me  during  those  hours,  with 
such  irresistible  persuasions  of  their  power  to  affect 
human  life,  were  after  all  connected  closely  with  the 
people  and  the  happenings  at  the  Hall.  The  vistas  of 
many  of  my  spiritual  adventures  were  opened  for  me 
in  my  wanderings  by  the  mighty  river,  and  my  sojourn 
in  the  fantastic  Hall. 


The  colony,  with  its  ideals  and  dreams,  its  beauties 
and  mistakes,  its  errors  and  its  ignobilities,  ran  its 
brief,  feverish  course  of  a  few  months, — lamentably 
to  end  as  a  flaring  story  for  the  newspapers  in  the 
disastrous  fire  that  swept  it  away  between  dark  and 
dawn  one  cold,  winter  morning. 

A  red  symbol  of  the  dawn!  Such  was  Helicon  Hall 
— symbol  of  the  dawn  of  a  new  day  and  a  new  way 
of  living;  a  new  life  which  must  come,  else  the  yearn- 
ing soul  of  man  but  deludes  him  with  vain  dreams.  .  . 

And  in  the  fire  my  wife  and  I  lost  our  all — our 
clothes,  furniture,  our  books.  .  .  . 


Helicon  Hall  157 

And  my  manuscripts! 

Every  shred  and  scrap  of  my  manuscripts;  includ- 
ing the  accepted  novel  and  the  book  I  had  written  in 
the  year  before  I  went  to  Texas;  seventy  thousand 
words  of  another  book  at  which  I  had  been  working 
at  intervals  for  more  than  ten  years;  the  forerunner, 
in  fact,  of  this  book;  three  short  plays,  and  a  mass  of 
stories,  poems,  prose  sketches,  essays,  note-books;  all 
the  literary  baggage  of  my  life's  work,  save  for  a  few 
unimportant  short  stories  then  going  the  rounds  of 
the  magazines. 

The  insurance  on  our  property  had  lapsed;  we 
faced  the  world  that  winter  morning,  the  four  of  us, 
man,  wife,  and  babies,  in  our  night  gear. 

Why  had  I  not  saved  my  manuscripts? 

There  was  no  chance.  That  great  wooden  bam  of 
a  place  was  a  hell  of  roaring  flame  within  ten  minutes 
of  my  awakening;  and  my  awakening  came  where  I 
was  sleeping  on  a  balcony  on  the  third  floor,  with  my 
books  and  papers  in  a  room  far  away  at  the  other 
end.  And  my  wife  and  children  were  downstairs. 
The  children  were  on  the  ground  floor;  my  wife  on 
the  floor  above.  She  knew  the  babies  were  safe;  so 
she  came  to  me;  to  warn  me,  just  as  I  was  starting 
to  seek  her.  We  bumped  together  in  the  smoke  and 
flame — in  which  two  poor  souls  went  out  from  their 
bodies  on  the  final  adventure  of  all — and  we  just 
barely  managed  to  escape,  after  one  sickening  mo- 
ment of  horror  when  we  blundered  down  the  staircase 
choked  with  smoke,  at  the  end  of  which  was  a  locked 
door. 

Grace  MacGowan  Cooke  and  Alice  MacGowan,  her    _ 


158  The  High  Romance 

sister,  were  badly  injured  jumping  from  the  windows ; 
and  many  others  were  slightly  hurt;  while  all  the 
writers  and  students  suffered  more  or  less  seriously 
through  the  loss  of  their  work. 

So  ended  Helicon  Hall. 

Destitute  now,  and  utterly  so,  with  the  book  that 
was  to  open  the  door  of  success  destroyed,  my  chance 
gone,  I  turned  once  more  to  face  the  bitter  struggle. 

I  resumed  my  literary  free-lancing  in  New  York; 
but  when  summer  came  we  went  to  the  Island  of 
Martha's  Vineyard. 


I 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    CALL   OF    THE    QUEST 

1.  A  Hut  Upon  a  Hill 

T  was  at  Martha's  Vineyard  that  the  turning  point 
arrived  and  my  Quest  of  the  High  Romance  defi- 
nitely shaped  itself,  and  became  conscious  instead  of 
merely  instinctive. 

On  a  little  hill  by  the  shore  of  this  island — where 
we  went  nearly  every  summer — I  had  built  a  hut 
which  I  used  for  a  work-room.  It  was  not  far  from 
our  cottage,  yet  far  enough  to  permit  me  to  escape 
from  children  and  neighbours — translate,  noises  and 
nuisances  when  one  is  working! 

It  was  my  wont  to  sleep  in  good  weather  on  a  mat 
outside  the  door  of  this  hut.  When  the  first  dawn 
light  came,  I  would  awaken,  and  as  the  birds  began  to 
sing,  I  would  begin  my  work. 

And  so  it  was  at  dawn  of  that  day  among  days 
which  led  me  to  a  new,  strange  trail  in  my  quest  of 
the  high  romance. 

In  the  doorway  of  my  hut — ^that  smelled  sweetly  of 
new-sawn  pine — I  stood  in  the  cool  crystalline  still- 
ness, and  wondered — as  ever  I  shall  wonder — at  the 
miracle  of  sunrise. 

(I  am  sealed  with  the  sense  of  wonder  .  .  .  for  me 
nothing  grows  stale.) 

Across  the  dimly  blue-grey  water,  smooth  as  silver, 

159 


160  The  High  Romance 

in  the  lighter  sky,  there  extended  a  broad,  undulating 
band  of  rich  crimson,  from  which  slowly  spread  up- 
ward— like  a  curtain  rising — a  ruddy  glow,  waxing 
lighter  and  brighter  and  more  aerial  in  its  ascension 
to  where  it  was  transmuted,  in  the  high  alembic  of 
tlie  cloudless  heavens,  into  the  pure  gold  of  the  sun. 

My  mood,  despite  the  solemnity  of  the  moment, 
was  whimsical.  I  felt  something  that  was  akin  to 
the  shallow  flood  of  complacency  that  a  city  man  on 
a  vacation  in  the  country  might  feel  as  the  reward  of 
his  unaccustomed  virtue  of  rising  early.  And  as  a 
city  business  man  might  indulge  in  a  few  leaps,  or 
do  physical  culture  movements,  under  the  stimula- 
tion of  such  a  mood,  I,  being  a  literary  person,  must 
needs  exercise  myself  by  juggling  with  a  few  phrases 
to  celebrate  the  occasion. 

"My  Lord  the  Sun  still  sleeps,"  I  said,  making  as 
good  an  imitation  of  the  genuflexion  of  a  Parsee  as 
I  could  improvise,  "in  his  pavilion  magically  built 
by  the  genii  of  water,  fire,  and  air.  Its  floor  is  of 
lapis-lazuli,  the  walls  are  of  purple,  the  roof  cloth  is 
crimson,  and  the  canopy  is  of  gold.  But  when  my 
Lord  deigns  to  appear,  forthwith  the  pavilion  will 
be  dismantled  and  overthrown,  for  this  arrogant 
Majesty  suff'ers  no  lesser  glories  to  flaunt  before  his 
face." 

Having  witnessed  my  Lord  mount  the  throne  of 
day,  I  knew  it  to  be  time  for  his  subject  to  go  to  work 
— for  even  devout  Parsees,  I  suppose,  have  to  work 
for  a  living;  so,  considering  my  devotions  accom- 
plished, I  turned  and  went  into  my  hut,  and  took  the 
cover  from  my  typewriter.  I  was  at  w^ork  on  a  Sun- 
day newspaper  article.     The  subject  was  well  formed 


The  Call  of  the  Quest  161 

in   my   mind;    I    expected   to   finish   the   task   that 
morning.  ... 

2.  The  Inner  Voice 

But  .  .  .  but  something  happened.  I  do  not  know 
how  to  speak  of  it.  For  nothing  outwardly  happened, 
nothing  at  all;  yet  inwardly  something  quite  momen- 
tous happened.  All  my  life  was  from  that  inslant 
changed;  that  moment  was  like  the  hinge  on  which 
invisibly,  noiselessly  and  inscrutably,  the  door  of 
Time  swung  open  to  admit  me  to  a  new  existence. 

And  yet  it  was  all  so  impalpable,  so  casual,  too. 
As  I  have  said,  I  was  about  to  sit  down  at  my  type- 
writer, my  mind  filled  with  a  sort  of  light,  careless 
joyousness  inspired  by  the  freshness  of  the  buoyant 
air  of  dawn. 

Instead  of  doing  so,  I  turned,  all  at  once,  toward 
the  open  door — very  quietly — as  though  I  had  been 
touched  by  some  invisible  hand, — by  the  hand  of 
somebody  who  had  an  urgent  message;  somebody  who 
wanted  me.  It  was — this  is  all  I  can  definitely  say, 
an  impulse;  a  new  kind  of  impulse;  an  impulse  to  do 
something  as  yet  unknown;  an  impulse  accompanied 
by  an  emotion  of  clear  and  thrilling  joy — the  joy 
which  the  beginning  of  an  adventure  always  brings 
to  the  true  follower  of  Romance. 

I  stared  expectantly  towards  the  door.  But  there 
was  nothing,  there  was  nobody  there;  only  a  clear 
space  of  sunshine,  and  the  silence.  The  thrill  of  the 
moment  passed;  yet  I  remained  there,  feeling  the 
sun,  and,  as  it  were,  listening  to  the  silence,  in  a 
sort  of  dream-condition.  I  am  not  as  yet  a  master  of 
moods;  I  am  a  poor  disciplinarian  of  my  energies. 


162  The  High  Romance 

Into  the  midst  of  the  busiest  humdrum  my  vagrant 
dreams  intrude;  they  come — dream  shapes,  and  dream 
voices,  whispering  poppied  words,  and  they  beckon, 
they  entice  my  soul  to  follow  them  to  a  far  region 
where  only  those  things  happen  that  are  as  you  would 
have  befall;  and  I  follow  them,  I  cannot  help  but 
follow. 

So  it  was  with  me  in  that  dawn.  The  magical 
draught  of  light  and  life,  ever  pouring  from  the  golden 
beaker  in  the  sky,  entranced  me — the  wine  of  white 
magic  was  it!  And  then — and  then  I  knew  that  the 
hour  had  struck.  The  conviction  was  suddenly  and 
irresistibly  borne  in  upon  me  that  the  time  had  come 
in  which  I  must  make  my  testament — my  confession 
of  the  faith  to  which  I  hold — nay,  which  holds  me  and 
will  not  let  me  go  until  I  have  worked  its  will,  to  the 
fullest  extent  of  my  power.  And  the  power  comes. 
The  soul  does  not  send  its  servants  forth  to  fight  un- 
armed and  unprotected — it  gives  both  buckler  and 
the  sword.  I  am  certain  that  in  this  moment  of  pul- 
sating life  my  greatest,  my  most  essential  need  found 
imperative  voice. 

And  I  obeyed  the  call. 

What  I  had  to  do  became  clear  to  me.  I  must 
take  a  blanket  and  food,  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and 
go  out  of  my  house,  go  away  from  family  and  friends, 
neighbours  and  strangers,  go  away  where  there  would 
only  be  the  sea  and  the  sky  and  the  lonely  land,  and 
myself,  and  write  to  my  friends — to  all  my  friends 
— the  story  of  my  adventures  on  my  pilgrimage. 
When  I  recognized  and  assented  to  the  call  my  agita- 
tion waned;  peace  was  with  me;  I  set  about  the  plain 
business  of  my  mission. 


The  Call  of  the  Quest  163 

3.  On  Taking  To  The  Open  Road 

If  I  were  not  a  writer,  I  would  like  to  be  a  tramp, 
or  a  sailor, — but,  verily,  I'm  pretty  much  of  a  vaga- 
bond as  it  is.  The  open  sky — the  roof  of  my  house 
of  life — has  arched  above  my  bed  and  board  in  many 
a  land,  on  many  seas.  Canada,  North  Carolina,  New 
England,  Texas,  West  Indies,  California,  Mexico — 
these  sonorous  geographical  names  evoke  remem- 
brances of  many  adventures — they  conjure  up  recol- 
lections of  ships,  and  camps,  work  and  play,  in  heat 
and  cold,  sun  and  rain,  calm,  storm,  day  and  night — 
perils  —  pleasures  —  fights  —  fires  —  earthquakes! 
Great  Walt,  beloved  R.  L.  S.,  sombre  George  Borrow, 
I,  too,  may  raise  a  chant  of  the  open  road. 

But  I  was  not  simply  going  on  a  tramp — I  had  bus- 
iness in  hand;  and  as  my  pack  was  heavy,  I  was  easy 
with  myself,  not  wishing  to  get  tired,  and  the  first 
six  miles  of  the  journey  were  made  as  a  passenger 
on  the  stage  that  runs  between  Oak  Bluffs  and  Edgar- 
town,  the  old  whaling  port  at  the  base  of  Cape  Pogue, 
the  northeast  point  of  the  island.  From  Edgartown 
I  meant  to  strike  out  on  foot  for  South  Beach,  on  the 
ocean  side  of  the  island,  with  an  old,  abandoned  hotel 
at  Katama  Bay  as  my  objective  point.  I  felt  that  it 
would  be  well  to  keep  within  a  mile  or  two  of  the 
deserted  house  so  that  I  might  readily  reach  shelter 
in  case  of  a  storm.  And,  indeed,  caution  was  sug- 
gested by  a  change  in  the  weather.  Already  the  bril- 
liancy of  the  day  (a  day  among  ten  thousand  for 
clarity  of  atmosphere  and  unclouded  sun)  had  faded; 
clouds  had  gathered,  and  I  read  a  threat  in  this  frown 
of  the  heavens  at  the  outset  of  my  journey.     My  mood 


164  The  High  Romance 

subtly  attuned  itself  to  the  new  key  of  grey.  I  be- 
came sober,  serious,  and  somewhat  sad.  I  felt  a  dis- 
tinct shrinking  back  within  my  mind  from  the  pros- 
pect of  solitude;  there  was  after  all  something  darkly 
enigmatical  in  the  thought  of  voluntary  loneliness. 
The  stability  of  purpose  that  a  man's  accustomed 
chair  supports,  the  definiteness  that  keys  up  your 
work  at  your  familiar  desk,  the  comfort  of  a  well- 
ordered  household — could  I  really  work  without  all 
that?  Perhaps  my  intention  was  not  wise  after  all; 
perhaps  it  was  even  foolish — my  guiding  dream  might 
be  a  pixie,  freakish  and  malicious,  and  not  a  serene 
messenger  from  the  blue  hall  of  the  gods! 

How  was  I  to  know?  The  little  devils  of  doubt  had 
seized  me  already!  As  matters  stood,  every  hour's 
work  was  of  urgent  practical  importance.  I  had  no 
money;  I  needed  money; — one  day's  work  must  pay 
for  the  morrow's  food  and  shelter,  fire  and  light,  books 
and  music — all  the  necessaries  of  life.  My  desk  was 
piled  high  with  work.  Was  it  not  foolish,  recklessly 
foolish,  to  run  away,  at  the  beck  of  a  dream,  from 
real  work? 

And,  musingly,  I  considered  that  chilling,  dark 
chasm  in  the  dim  world  of  thought  which  I  knew  so 
well, — the  chasm  that  yawns  between  desire  and  ful- 
filment, the  idea  and  its  accomplishment;  descending 
deeper,  extending  wider  still,  between  the  ideal  and 
its  attainment.  I  considered  it  seriously.  I  recog- 
nized full  well  the  difficulties,  labours  and  dangers 
of  its  passage;  and  knew  that  I  might  thrill  to  my 
soul  with  realization  of  how  goodly  a  thing  I  had  con- 
ceived and  yet  fail  most  lamentably  to  demonstrate 
its  goodness.  .  .  , 


The  Call  of  the  Quest  165 

But  even  in  that  time  of  doubt,  of  hesitation  on  the 
threshold,  I  knew  that  doubt  and  hesitation  would 
be  but  momentary.  Even  then,  deep  within  me,  be- 
neath my  sombreness,  a  song  of  affirmation  was  thrill- 
ing as  a  bird  sings  above  a  cloud,  in  the  sun;  and  when 
there  is  a  song  in  my  heart  all  goes  well.  Nothing 
daunts  the  soul  that  sings ;  for  then  it  is  in  tune  with 
life;  and  life's  truest  voice  is  music, — such  music  as 
men  hear,  or  dream,  and  write  down  on  paper  to  re- 
lease again  in  violins,  in  drums,  in  brass  and  wood- 
wind, and  in  human  voice.  And  there  is  music  in 
the  wind  moving  in  the  grass,  in  the  brush,  and  the 
trees ;  there  is  music  in  waters  falling  in  rain,  purling 
in  streams,  crashing  on  the  strand;  there  is  music  in 
all  natural  sounds,  but  all  is  inarticulate — it  is  song 
in  limbo;  song  that  must  rise  upward  through  the 
heart,  the  brain,  and  the  soul  of  man,  as  through  an 
alembic,  before  it  is  made  living.  Surely,  the  spirit 
of  life  speaks  in  and  through  all  things;  but  from 
man  comes  its  most  noble  words,  its  greatest  messages, 
its  highest  songs,  since  man  is  its  most  perfected  in- 
strument,— though,  indeed,  merely  the  chief,  the  lead- 
ing instrument  in  the  orchestra.  I  dream  of  music 
as  saints  dream  of  heaven.  I  dream  of  so  placing 
words  together,  of  so  choosing  words,  that  from  one 
unto  the  other  will  flow  my  thought,  undulating,  chant- 
ing its  message  musically. 

4.  The  House  of  Quiet 

— I  was  the  only  passenger  on  the  stage.  My 
driver  was  a  boy  of  fifteen.  As  we  drew  near  Edgar- 
town   we   fell   into   talk.     Previously,    I   had   been 


166  The  High  Romance 

silently  drinking  in  the  beauty  of  gracious  colours 
suffusing  sand  and  sea,  wind-bent  oaks,  high,  yellow 
grass  and  tufted  rushes — and  of  the  graceful  lines 
traced  by  the  deeply  inset  bay  and  low,  curving  hills, 
the  moorland,  and  the  linked  garland  of  little  ponds 
along  the  shore.  I  asked  my  driver  the  shortest  route 
to  Katama  Bay.  He  gave  me  intelligent  directions; 
and  then  asked  me  what  I  was  going  to  do  down 
there,  where  nobody  lived.  I  told  him  I  meant  to 
tramp  and  loaf  by  day;  and  by  night  sleep  under 
the  sky.  You  should  have  seen  that  lad's  eyes 
brighten,  and  heard  how  his  voice  rang  the  bell  of 
his  heart's  interest!  That  was  what  he'd  like  to  do, 
you  bet,  said  he;  and  told  me  of  his  own  past  excur- 
sions. 

What  a  pity  all  boys  cannot  do  likewise,  and  from 
time  to  time  go  away  to  the  woods,  the  hills,  the  waters, 
and  roam  them,  sleeping  where  the  day's  end  befalls. 
No  doubt  a  few  would  drown;  some  necks  would  be 
cracked  by  tumbles  from  rocks  and  trees;  and  they 
might  occasionally  pot  each  other  with  guns  not  known 
to  be  loaded, — but  do  they  not  die,  the  boys,  die  like 
flies;  die  weak,  vicious,  diseased,  by  countless 
thousands  in  our  cities? — thousands  whom  open  air 
and  play  might  save? 

It  was  past  six  o'clock  when  we  reached  Edgar- 
town.  My  boy  driver  kindly  went  out  of  his  way 
to  carry  me  to  a  place  where  he  could  point  out  the 
best  route  cross-lots  towards  Katama. 

"Thanks,  and  good  night — good  luck,  friend!" 

"Good  night — good  luck!"  he  sang  out  in  his  piping 
treble. 

I  hoisted  my  bag  on  my  shoulders  and  set  my  face 


The  Call  of  the  Quest  167 

to  the  open  places.  I  walked  across  a  great,  bare, 
swelling,  wind-swept  moor.  Only  a  scattered  house 
or  two,  far  oflF,  and  widely  separated;  not  a  soul  in 
sight. 

Now  was  I  indeed  alone,  in  the  house  of  the  open; 
night  at  hand,  sky  grey,  the  rain  already  being  cast 
into  my  face  in  brief  spats  by  a  fitful  wind  that 
whistled  dryly  in  the  stiff,  short  grass  and  the  scattered 
patches  of  brush.  Against  the  grey  skyline  to  my 
right  arose  a  tall  water-tower,  impressing  solitude 
upon  me  like  a  symbol. 

I  had  walked  perhaps  a  mile  and  a  half  when  sud- 
denly I  became  aware  of  a  sound  that  brought  me 
to  a  dead  stop,  listening,  peering  forward — could  it 
be — Yes!  It  was  the  low,  deep,  still,  distant  boom- 
ing of  the  surf,  sonorous  and  profound.  Ho!  how 
I  thrilled, — how  it  always  thrills  me,  that  sound — I, 
who  was  bom  by  the  sea,  who  have  sailed  it,  who 
have  been  threatened  many  times  with  death  by  it, 
and  whose  father  and  brother  have  it  now  for  their 
graves.  Both  father  and  brother  were  sailors;  so  was 
my  father's  father,  and  his  father — oh,  if  I  might  put 
the  suggestion  of  that  melodious  thundering  into 
words,  back  of  all  other  sounds,  like  a  gravely  noble 
bass  accompaniment! 

Shortly  after  sunset  I  reached  the  deserted  hotel 
at  Katama,  standing  on  the  sand  of  the  bay  about 
a  short  mile  from  the  sea  beach.  The  sky  was 
quite  black  save  for  one  little  place  low  down  in  the 
west  where  a  dim,  faint  gleam  of  gold  was  fading; 
it  was  like  the  last  hope  left  in  a  sorrowful  heart. 
A  chilly  wind,  salt  and  moist,  was  blowing  in  from 
the  sea.     The  booming  of  the  surf  waxed  louder. 


168  The  High  Romance 

Loose  boards  clattered  in  the  ruined  house.  The 
wind  in  a  cracked  voice  hummed  banshee  strains,  or 
in  husky  accents  whispered  secretively  through  the 
shattered  glass  windows,  the  broken  chimneys;  and 
wandered  through  the  empty  rooms  where  once  at  such 
an  hour  as  this  bright  lights  shone,  and  men,  women, 
and  children  laughed  out  the  holidays  of  their  work- 
a-day  lives.  Some  great  night  bird,  an  owl,  perhaps, 
blundered  heavily  down  upon  the  roof  of  the  veranda, 
startling  me  for  a  breath;  and  all  about  me  were  the 
queer,  strange,  anonymous  little  voices  of  nocturnal 
nature. 

I  took  a  bath  of  solitude.  My  soul  and  I  sat  like 
two  Arabs  in  silent  communion,  secrets  passing  with- 
out words  between  us. 

No  man  knows  himself  until  he  goes  away  from 
the  crowd,  and  even  then  he  learns  but  little  for  a 
long  and  weary  time. 

The  dark,  the  low-breathing  night  leaned  close  to 
me,  like  a  hooded  priest  toward  a  penitent.  What  is 
your  message  for  me?  Rest — rest — rest — so  I  trans- 
lated what  I  heard,  and  I  laid  myself,  dear  night,  upon 
thy  bosom.  .  .  . 

I  love  the  night;  but  my  love  for  it  is  like  unto  the 
sentiment  one  retains  for  an  old,  past  love  affair. 
Truly,  for  many  years  I  was  a  noctambulist,  and 
wooed  the  adorable,  moody,  secretive  mistress  of  dark 
hours  who  is  veiled  and  has  jewels  in  her  hair,  she 
whose  cool  caresses  infect  you  with  a  singular  and 
restless  fever — but  now  I  have  a  new  love  and  pay 
court  to  her  frank,  joyous,  wholesome,  warm-hearted 
sister,  day.  .  .  . 


The  Call  of  the  Quest  169 

5.  How  Joy  Came  With  The  Morning 

I  put  myself  between  the  folds  of  my  blanket, 
drew  on  my  sweater,  got  out  my  bundle  of  writing 
paper,  and  doubling  a  towel  about  it,  used  that  for 
a  pillow;  and  it  pleased  me  to  think  I  was  like  unto 
a  soldier  lying  on  his  arms  in  the  field.  The  con- 
ceit soothed  me;  and  I  slept,  fitfully,  it  is  true;  but 
at  last  for  several  hours.  On  my  final  awakening  I 
found  the  sky  hinting  of  dawn,  although  it  was  still 
overcast,  still  threatening  rain.  But  the  wind  was 
warmer,  and  there  were  dim  penumbras  of  colours 
low  in  the  east,  across  the  black  sea;  the  faint  inti- 
mations of  sunrise  struggling  through  the  clouds.  I 
took  the  water  pail  and  a  towel  and  walked  toward 
the  sea. 

On  the  sandy  beach  the  waves  were  rolling  in  miles: 
long  regiments  of  breakers,  crested  with  curling  foam. 
Flying  sand  and  spin-drift  stung  my  face.  In  this 
wan,  grey  light  the  effect  produced  on  me  by  the 
sudden  explosions  of  white  wave  crests  was  endirall- 
ing,  it  was  deeply  exciting.  I  lay  down  in  the  shelter 
of  a  sand  bank  to  watch  the  wild  yet  ordered  move- 
ment of  the  waves,  dancing  to  their  own  secret 
rhythms.  I  was  waiting  for  the  light  to  increase  in 
order  that  I  might  bathe.  My  wife's  last  words  had 
been  a  warning  against  uncautipus  bathing  on  the 
South  Beach,  where  the  undertow  is  most  powerful; 
and  indeed  one  look  at  the  swirling  of  these  big 
smashers  was  enough  to  convince  me  it  would  be  folly 
to  risk  swimming  in  them.  But  I  conceived  an  idea. 
There  was  a  fragment  of  an  old  wreck  on  the  shore, 
and  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  might  wade  out  to  the 


170  The  High  Romance 

lee  side  of  this  as  one  wave  receded,  cling  to  a  plank 
and  allow  the  succeeding  waves  to  drench  me  as  they 
breached  against  the  seaward  side  of  the  stout,  deeply 
sunken  timbers. 

After  a  little  while  the  sun  cleared  a  path  through 
the  clouds  and  shone  down  upon  me  brightly.  The 
moment  was  auspicious,  I  undressed  and  soon  was 
rushing  at  the  tail  of  a  retreating  wave  for  the  wreck. 
Thigh-deep  in  the  swirling  back- rush,  I  clung  to  the 
projecting  plant  I  had  marked,  and  in  another  in- 
stant— 

Boom  and  crash! 

The  timbers  shook,  and  a  sheet  of  cold,  sharp 
spray  fell  heavily  upon  me.  .  .  .  Whew-w!  what  a 
shock;  and  what  a  morning  bracer  for  a  man  who 
once  upon  a  time  depended  upon  dry  Manhattan  cock- 
tails! I  allowed  a  few  more  waves  to  dash  over  me, 
and  then  raced  for  the  shore,  dancing  and  leaping; 
warm,  tingling  all  over;  and  then  I  scampered  back 
for  more. 

After  a  brisk  rub-down  I  pushed  back  to  the  hotel. 
The  sun  had  again  disappeared;  again  it  looked  like 
rain.  In  a  snug  corner  of  the  veranda  I  drew  forth 
my  pen  and  began  to  work: 


— And  in  my  heart  I  oflfered  up  a  pagan's  prayer: 
''Blow,  0  wind  of  the  morning,  shine,  0  rising  sun 
upon  me!  Freshen  and  fructify  me  with  your  keen 
joyousness,  your  prepotent  vitality,  your  irresistible 
life — 50  that  from  me  may  spring  my  testament  to 
life  as  from  this  earth  there  comes  the  grass  on  which 
I  tread  and  the  flowers  that  turn  toward  the  east! 


The  Call  of  the  Quest  171 

*^For  I  have  come  to  the  shrine  of  the  morning  as 
one  who  enters  a  confessional  in  the  holiest  of  holy 
Churches,  to  cleanse  my  heart  by  my  confession — and, 
if  I  am  found  penitent — and  if  I  receive  absolution — 
/  will  partake  of  the  communion — and  then  swear  the 
vow — and  upon  that  shall  follow  the  great  Adventure, 
of  which  this  book  is  the  shadow  cast  before.  .  .  ." 

6.  Mystery 

The  next  night  I  slept  far  away  from  the  dismal 
ruin  that  complained  to  itself  all  night  long, 
querulously  bemoaning  its  by-gone  comforts;  even 
on  calm  nights  it  sighed  and  groaned.  I  spread  my 
blanket  on  the  sand  at  South  Beach,  and  listened  to 
the  sea;  and  watched  the  moon,  huge  and  ruddy  and 
round,  coming  up  out  of  the  water  like  a  slow  fire 
balloon  into  a  sky  of  rich,  dim  violet,  losing  its  ruddi- 
ness and  becoming  luminously  silvern — like  a  blonde 
girl  losing  the  glow  brought  to  her  slender,  white  body 
by  a  plunge  into  the  sea. 

The  moor,  with  its  covering  of  short,  spare  yellow 
grass  and  its  patches  of  pallid  sand,  and  of  dusky 
brush,  was  drenched  in  a  mysterious  flood  of  mystical 
sheen,  a  glimmering  of  singularly  rich,  dim,  un- 
nameable  faint  hues  and  suggestions  of  colours.  On 
the  still  inner  water  of  Katama  Bay  the  moonlight 
was  entrancing — one's  soul  plunged  deep  into  that 
silver  current  of  dreams.  A  thick,  sombre  grove  of 
dwarf  oaks  and  scrub  pine  lay  to  my  right,  black 
and  sinister.  Now  and  then,  fireflies  sparkled  in  its 
brooding  gloom,  unexpectedly  and  erratically  as  witty 
thoughts  issuing  from  a  misanthrope.     As  I  strolled 


172  The  High  Romance 

along  the  beach  I  heard  the  laughter  of  picnicers,  and 
I  made  a  long  detour  to  avoid  them.  Then  in  the  lee 
of  a  sandbank  I  again  spread  my  blanket,  and  lay- 
there  contemplating  old  ocean — that  ancient  of  days, 
hoarsely  talking  to  himself  along  the  sand — and 
drinking  my  fill  of  the  night's  freely  proffered 
beauty.  .  .  . 

I  think  I  was  nearly  asleep,  when  I  heard  gay 
voices,  laughter,  little  ecstatic  cries,  and  I  hurriedly 
sat  up.  ...  I  am  very  glad  I  was  not  sleeping! 
Three  girls  had  stolen  away  from  the  other  picnicers, 
and  were  racing  along  the  hard  sand  by  the  very 
edge  of  the  breakers;  their  shoes  and  stockings  off, 
and  their  light  summer  dresses  kilted  up  around  their 
thighs.  The  distance  softened  their  (perhaps)  shrill, 
Yankee  voices;  the  moonlight  made  their  white  legs 
gleam  like  silver,  their  draperies  fluttered  about  them. 
.  .  .  They  are  not  Yankee  maids,  I  cried,  they  are 
Nereids!  Hark!  in  the  surf  the  "blue  Tritons  sound 
their  twisted  shells."  Old  ocean  (and  who  shall 
blame  him?)  clutched  at  their  twinkling  ankles  as 
they  sped  along  .  .  .  and  passed.  ...  I  saw  them 
no  more,  I  was  sleeping,  I  suppose,  when  they  re- 
turned. .  .  . 

For  a  long  time,  I  lay  thinking  of  these  communica- 
tions before  I  fell  asleep.  I  thought  of  my  friends; 
I  sent  my  love  toward  them.  My  thoughts  went  up 
into  the  air,  through  the  moonlight,  and  sped  on,  like 
homing  birds,  their  homes  your  hearts,  dear  friends. 
And,  believe  me,  there  is  more  than  an  evanescent 
conceit  in  these  words, — for  how  many  of  my  thoughts 
came  from  your  hearts,  were  bom  and  were  given 
life  through  acts  of  kindness,  of  friendliness,  on  your 


The  Call  of  the  Quest  173 

part  towards  me!  They  are  innumerable.  We  live 
in  our  friends.  We  are  all  unique  beings,  each  and 
every  one  of  us,  but  yet  how  much  we  gain,  how  much 
we  add  to  what  we  are  and  what  we  do  through  the 
inter-play  and  interweaving  of  our  common  dreams, 
our  thoughts,  our  acts,  our  sins,  our  dooms  and  des- 
tinies! One  man  alone  would  be  no  man;  he  would 
be  an  It,  a  Thing;  the  bees  or  the  ants  would  capture 
and  put  him  in  a  wax  case,  stuffed  and  neatly  labelled 
as  the  monstrous  curiosity  of  the  earth.  The  word 
man  to  me  signifies  family. 

When  I  awoke  on  the  sand  bank  in  the  morning, 
lightning  was  flashing  and  thunder  rolling  in  the  east. 
It  was  two  o'clock.  I  hastened  for  shelter  from  the 
storm.  These  electrical  phenomena  exercise  a 
singular  influence  upon  me,  strongly  exciting  my 
nerves,  and  stirring  up  curious  thoughts.  And  al- 
though the  storm  died  out  in  the  distance  before  day- 
break, I  was  in  a  state  of  mind  not  braced  for  the 
continuance  of  writing.  So  I  built  a  roaring  fire — 
the  morning  was  the  coldest  I  had  experienced — 
and  stripped  by  it,  and  took  a  plunge.  Then  I  raced 
back  to  the  fire,  and  soon  I  was  warm,  glowing  all 
over,  feeling  light  and  clean  and  happy,  inside  and 
outside. 

And  like  a  Brahmin  contemplating  the  universe 
with  his  eyes  for  ever  bent  upon  his  navel,  I  sat  by  the 
blaze,  the  three  elements  of  fire,  water,  and  air  hav- 
ing their  will  upon  my  body — and  I  was  struck  into 
awe  by  the  wonder  of  this  structure  of  bone,  blood, 
and  cell,  in  which  I  live.  To  think  of  the  heart 
pumping  blood  through  all  these  veins;  the  lungs  and 


174  The  High  Romance 

all  the  intricate  organism  at  work  in  strange 
chemistry,  transforming  the  air  I  breathe,  the  food 
and  drink  I  take,  the  sunshine  that  touches  me,  into 
that  other  mystery — the  energy  which  animates  my 
body's  movement,  and  the  thoughts  and  dreams  that 
move  through  the  strange  chambers  of  the  brain! 

Once  dressed,  I  threw  myself  upon  the  turf. 
There  was  a  clump  of  daisies  near  me.  I  thought  of 
their  roots,  reaching  down  into  the  soil,  and  of  the 
mystic  chemistry  there  operating,  to  be  expressed 
finally  in  the  blossom  of  white  and  gold  that  seems 
(or  is  it  fancy?)  to  be  turning  toward  the  East,  toward 
the  sun.  A  gull  screamed,  wheeled  sharply,  and 
dived  into  the  water,  seeking  its  food — a  winged 
mystery  in  the  mystery  of  the  air!  And  the  stars  I 
watched  last  night,  the  stars!  ...  0  mystery  .  .  . 
mystery!   .  .  . 

The  profoundest  chord  in  the  symphony  of  life  is 
mystery.  Where  it  sounds  in  art  you  may  know  the 
artist  has  drawn  near  the  veiled  source  of  all  things. 

Voices  seemed  to  whisper  secret  words;  I  strained 
to  listen,  to  mark,  to  remember. 

No. 

I  could  not  understand. 

I  cannot  understand. 

I  do  not  think  it  possible  to  understand. 

But  in  all  I  create  may  there  be  intimations  of  that 
august,  impenetrable  Mystery. 

7.  Words  of  the  Night 

That  same  day,  I  returned  to  my  home.  I  was 
temporarily  written  out,  and  my  strange,  new  mood 


The  Call  of  the  Quest  175 

had  relaxed  its  tension,  although  I  had  in  mind 
further  things  I  wished  to  say.  But  for  some  time 
after  my  return  I  was  obliged  to  devote  myself  to  my 
bread-and-butter  work.  It  was  not  until  two  months 
later  that  I  again  took  up  the  task  begun  at  Katama 
Bay. 

Once  more  I  feverishly  wrought  at  my  communi- 
cations, because  things  that  I  desired  to  tell  crowded 
upon  my  attention  at  every  turn,  at  every  moment, 
for  months  after  the  visitation  of  that  curious  wander- 
lust. I  could  not  meet  even  the  most  casual 
stranger;  I  could  not  look  to  the  right  or  left,  up 
or  down,  at  star  or  gutter,  upon  open  sea  or  city 
street,  without  finding  some  new  thing;  something 
that  I  felt  I  must  write  about,  as  though  it  had  never 
been  described  before;  as  though  it  had  just  been 
bom,  and  I  had  just  been  born,  and  must  tell  other 
souls  newly  bom  about  all  these  wonders,  all  these 
things,  and  deeds,  and  happenings  and  personages  of 
this  mystery-play  of  human  life! 


Night  after  night  I  brooded  over  them;  in  a  far 
different  mood,  however,  and  in  very  different  cir- 
cumstances, than  during  my  trip  into  the  solitude  and 
beauty  of  South  Beach. 

The  storm  that  threatened  but  did  not  descend 
all  the  time  I  was  gipsying  had  now  broken  in  all  its 
violence,  and  blew  day  after  day  and  night  after 
night.  The  house  in  which  I  lived,  a  single-boarded, 
unshingled,  summer  cottage,  shook  and  quivered 
continuously.  The  doors  and  windows  rattled  with- 
out cessation. 


176  The  High  Romance 

And  night  after  night  it  was  my  duty  to  sit  up, 
sleepless,  and  see  the  night  through.  I  felt  a  deep 
disturbance  of  nerve,  a  feverish  agitation  of  thought, 
— in  reaction,  no  doubt,  from  my  exalted  condition 
during  my  South  Beach  adventure. 

How  it  went  to  my  heart  to  imagine — as  each  night 
I  most  vividly  did — that  out  there  in  the  bitter 
weather  men  were  struggling  and  strangling,  with 
flooded  lungs  and  bursting  hearts.  All  their  agonies 
in  vain,  1  could  see  them  sink;  down  they  went,  down 
into  the  strange  depths  beyond  which  they  might  not 
sink;  down  among  the  tangled  skeletons  of  the  sea; 
down  where  the  bones  of  my  father  and  of  my  brother 
were  swirling  to  and  fro. 

— In  the  depths  of  the  sea — I  told  myself — there 
are  great  sub-oceanic  rivers,  with  powerful  cur- 
rents (like  the  Gulf  Stream)  and  these  move  along 
bearing  with  them  everlastingly  the  bodies  of  the 
drowned;  true  rivers  of  Lethe!  .  .  .  And  these  men 
who  were  drowning,  they  were  fathers,  or  sons,  or 
husbands,  or  lovers,  or  friends;  and  their  parents  or 
wives  or  children  or  sweethearts  or  comrades  were 
on  shore;  and  they  did  not  hear  the  passing  cries  of 
the  drowning  upon  the  wild  wind,  yet  surely  some 
of  them  felt  strange  tremblings — and  yearning 
trouble;  and  tomorrow  or  the  next  day  the  news 
would  reach  them. 


So  I,  who  wrote  in  the  morning,  in  calm,  in  peace, 
of  the  joys  of  my  new  life,  my  morning  life,  now 
in  a  night  of  storm  wrote  of  the  grim  welter  of  the 
sea,  where  in  the  midst  of  the  surf  the  withering  faces 


The  Call  of  the  Quest  Yll 

of  the  drowning  disappear,  like  bursting  foam  bells, 
and  the  wild  wind  howls  over  them. 


Something  had  happened  beyond  the  reaction 
from  my  other  mood  to  make  me  feel  like  this. 

I  was  watching  beside  a  bed  of  sickness.  My  little 
son  was  burning  in  fever.  I  nursed  him  by  night. 
In  the  intervals,  when  he  was  asleep  or  at  ease,  I  kept 
on  with  my  writing.  Every  little  while,  I  would  break 
off  and  go  to  his  side  when  he  moved,  or  moaned, 
or  cried  out,  or  needed  attention.  Just  so  long  as 
I  could  hold  myself  to  the  task,  I  had  kept  at  my 
bread-and-butter  work,  to  the  articles  I  was  writing 
for  the  magazines.  But  ever  since  that  call  out  of  the 
dawn  I  had  been  singularly  excited,  or  perhaps  merely 
feverish,  in  spirit.  Thoughts  kept  rushing  through 
my  head,  even  as  in  that  autumn  time  the  wild  ducks 
were  rushing  out  of  the  mystic  solitude  of  the  North; 
and  when  I  heard  the  whirring  of  their  wings — my 
wild  bird  thoughts! — perforce  I  stopped  my  work-a- 
day  toil,  and  added  something,  if  even  but  a  few 
lines  or  words,  to  the  book  of  my  adventures. 

And  night  after  night  I  wrote,  or  read,  as  I 
watched  by  the  sick  boy,  and  thought  or  dreamed. 

Like  a  river  of  unequal  depth  and  varying  strength 
and  rapidity  of  current,  is  life;  and  during  those 
strange  nights  I  rushed  through  whirlpools  and 
rapids;  or  in  beatific  calms,  or  wild  vertigoes  of 
spirit,  I  swept  under  sheer  rocks,  looking  up  into 
skies  where  eagles  winged,  or  shuddered  at  the  pro- 
found depths  over  which  I  floated — an  atom,  aware 
of  its  infinitesimal  unimportance. 


178  The  High  Romance 

Yet  surely  the  atom  is  important  to  itself,  and  to 
otlier  human  souls?  At  least  I  am  something  to  my 
friends;  as  they  are  to  me;  as  we  are  to  each  other  in 
this  world  of  which  we  know  so  little — this  world 
which,  like  us,  is  rushing  down  the  great  river  of  life 
through  the  shadow  land  of  eternity. 

Every  human  soul  is  an  exploration. 


About  three  o'clock,  one  morning,  the  sick  boy, 
after  a  dolorous  spell  of  pain,  went  to  sleep.  What 
a  blessed  relief! 

The  night  had  grown  colder,  or  perhaps  it  was 
I  who  was  colder.  They  say,  you  know,  that  in  that 
dismal  hour  before  the  dawn  one's  vigour  is  at  its 
lowest  ebb.  I  felt  chilled,  altliough  I  hugged  the 
stove.  I  felt  somewhat  down  in  the  mouth,  a  little 
nervous,  and  inclined  to  be  irritable.  I  could  see 
that  I  had  not  yet  shaken  off  all  traces  of  the  shock 
impressed  upon  my  nervous  system  by  the  earth- 
quake, and  the  fire  at  Helicon  Hall.  I  still  find  my- 
self, in  moments  when  vitality  ebbs,  troubled  by  fears 
of  cataclysmic  disasters  impending.  And  that  morn- 
ing the  quivering  of  the  frail  house  alarmed  me.  I 
dreaded  an  overthrow,  and  fire  starting  up  in  the 
rooms  from  lamps — and  I  have  had  my  fill  of  burn- 
ing houses  and  of  rushing  out  into  cold  dawns,  home- 
less and  stripped  bare!  And  the  rain  was  leaking 
dismally  through  walls  and  ceiling  in  half  a  score  of 
places.  This  thing  I  consider  damnable;  there  is 
something  sickly,  something  suggestive  of  a  mean 
disease,  connected  with  a  house  that  does  not  fulfil 
the  true  functions  of  a  house;  which  is,  to  protect  us 


The  Call  of  the  Quest  179 

from  the  weather.  Do  you  remember  how  Edward 
Carpenter  points  out  somewhere  in  one  of  his  essays 
that  our  house  is  one  of  our  skins?  .  .  .  and  a  house 
should  be  whole  for  life's  sake,  for  decency's  sake, 
and  for  honour's  sake.  .  .  .  After  placing  basins, 
cups  and  other  vessels  beneath  the  more  copious  leaks, 
I  huddled  up  in  a  rug  near  the  stove  and  read 
Metchnikoff's  "Nature  of  Man";  for  I  could  write  no 
more,  I  had  written  myself  out. 

Metchnikoff's  book  is  a  great  one.  It  is  one  of  the 
most  inspiring  and  hopeful  messages  that  science  has 
delivered  to  mankind  in  the  course  of  many  years. 
It  is  one  of  those  books  from  which  material  could 
be  drawn  for  the  formation  of  that  Book  of  The 
Samurai  of  which  H.  G.  Wells  speaks;  that  book 
which  will  be  a  Bible  in  the  new  civilization  that  is 
to  dawn,  a  book  in  which  the  finest  and  most  hopeful 
and  truest  words  will  be  marshalled  for  the  use  of  us 
all. 

But  in  my  dismal  mood  that  morning  I  came  upon 
an  appropriately  dismal  portion  of  Metchnikoff's 
otherwise  stimulating  message;  that  in  which  he  deals 
with  the  subject  of  death,  and  the  instinctive  human 
fear  of  death.  .  .  . 

When  you  have  a  sick  child  on  your  hands  you 
do  not  like  even  to  see  that  grizzly  word,  Death,  in 
print;  you  avert  your  thoughts  with  a  shiver  from  the 
idea — which  is  another  instance  that  Metchnikoff 
might  use  in  support  of  his  contention  that  there  is 
an  instinctive  fear  of  death  implanted  in  human  na- 
ture. 

Nevertheless,  the  subject  of  death  has  always  been 
one  of  deep  interest  for  me,  and  I  returned  to  its 


180  The  High  Romance 

contemplation  that  morning.  Indeed,  it  became 
uppennost  in  my  thoughts.  I  laid  the  big  book  aside 
and  sat  musingly  by  the  fireside;  musing  and  re- 
membering. Scenes  and  conversations  came  vividly 
to  mind;  scenes  in  which  Death  and  myself,  or  Death 
and  others,  played  leading  parts;  conversations  in 
which  Death  was  the  subject  of  the  talk.  I  found 
myself  synthesizing  these  memories,  reflections  and 
inquiries  on  death,  in  an  eff'ort  to  define  what  Death 
meant  to  me. 

And  as  I  sat  there  silently,  all  these  memories  be- 
came vivid  pictures,  and  they  defiled  before  my  eyes 
like  a  panorama;  or  perhaps  I  might  say  that  I  sat 
there  like  unto  a  man  in  a  strange  house  who  studies 
the  designs  and  figures  in  the  tapestry  upon  the  wall 
of  a  room  of  mystery.  .  .  . 


But  as  I  brooded  thus,  my  boy  awoke  and  called 
me,  and  I  hurried  to  him. 

"I  want  a  drink,"  he  whispered. 

I  put  the  prepared  draught  to  his  scorched  lips  and 
he  drank  avidly.  His  head  sank  back  on  his  pillow. 
He  seemed  not  so  feverish  as  on  my  last  visit.  In  the 
dim  light  in  which  I  kept  him,  his  eyes  seemed  clear, 
and  as  he  looked  up  at  me  he  smiled — a  queer  odd, 
piteous  grimace;  and  then,  in  a  voice  of  unimaginable 
softness,  he  murmured : 

"Daddy,  I  love  you!" 

I  should  like  to  reproduce  the  accents  of  his  voice. 
But  I  cannot.  I  try  "baby -talk"  spelling;  writing 
down,  in  an  effort  to  be  phonetic,  "I  yuve  you;"  but 
this  is  not  right;  no,  I  do  not  catch  it;  he  did  not,  it  is 


The  Call  of  the  Quest  181 

true,  say  "I  love  you"  with  just  the  clearness  conveyed 
by  the  written  words;  there  was  that  untranslatable, 
that  adorable  lisping  accent.  .  .  .  But  I  cannot  con- 
vey the  unconveyable. 

This,  however,  is  a  fact  which  can  be  told,  namely, 
that  even  in  the  night,  in  storm,  even  when  I  thought 
of  death,  my  grey  familiar,  I  was  in  the  midst  of 
life  and  knew  the  joy  of  it. 


And  I  thought: — 

What  a  goodly  thing  it  would  be  for  a  man  to  be 
writing  so  that  he  might  "pass  the  time"  and  keep 
keenly  awake  in  such  a  service  as  this  attendance 
upon  a  child,  and  in  so  doing  write  something  true, 
write  something  worthy,  write  something  worth 
while!  .  .  . 

Can  it  be,  after  all,  that  to  do  some  little  act  of 
service  is  better  and  more  worth  while  than  to  write 
something  beautiful? 

Little  boy,  do  you  know  the  answer  to  this  question? 
You  smile  as  you  dream — tell  me  what  you  dream 
about?  Of  coming  life?  I  dream  of  it  also,  and  I 
dream  that  perhaps  again  I  may  be  as  you  are,  and 
know  the  life  that  is  to  be.  .  .  . 

What  is  that  saying  I  have  somewhere  heard,  that 
we  must  be  bom  again  to  know  the  truth.  That  we 
must  become  as  little  children?  But  if  we  become 
as  children,  there  must  somewhere,  somehow,  be  a 
Father! 

Ah,  but  that  is  only  illusion? 


182  The  High  Romance 

Yet,  illusion  has  its  place. 

Personally  I  delight  to  play  at  make-believe.  I 
imagine  myself  a  true  Lavengro;  a  real  master  of 
words;  a  gipsy  word-master;  and  when  I  play  this 
game  I  seem  to  see  myself  so  weaving  words  together 
as  to  suggest  voices  that  sing  like  the  violins  in  Tris- 
tan, or  that  roar  like  the  surf  on  South  Beach,  or  shine 
like  certain  spaces  of  star-set  sky  I  can  remember,  or 
that  are  coloured  like  the  slender,  black  masts  of  the 
schooners  against  the  clear  golden  dawn  in  Vineyard 
Haven,  when  each  mast  is  like  unto  the  spear  or  ban- 
neret of  a  knight,  drawn  by  an  artist  to  serve  as  a 
design  for  the  initial  letter  of  a  story  of  adventure. 

Ah,  if  I  could  only  find  words  of  a  beauty  like  unto 
the  beauty  of  the  lips  and  the  dear  eyes  of  a  child! 

But  I  am  a  dreamer  of  impossible  dreams.  .  .  . 

Do  you  know,  sometimes  I  fancy  I  am  able  to  think 
the  thoughts  of  a  child.  I  wish  I  could  be  sure,  for 
I  would  write  them  down;  but,  of  course,  I  must  be 
mistaken,  and  I  do  not  want  to  make  myself 
ridiculous.  For  one  thing,  I  am  always  wanting 
people  to  play  my  play;  to  come  into  my  game.  But 
I  must  not  cherish  illusions  when  there  are  so  many 
real  wonders  about  me.  .  .  . 

None  the  less,  I  feel  that  my  game  is  much  more 
interesting  than  most  of  the  stupid  games  being  played 
around  me.  .  .  .  Money-making,  for  example;  and 
the  chase  after  the  folly  of  fame. 


And  of  all  the  games  I  desired  to  play,  the  game 
of  games  was  life  itself.  Oh,  to  live  as  something 
within    me    passionately    desired    to    live — ^to    live 


The  Call  of  the  Quest  183 

exuberantly,  boldly,  splendidly!  Ah,  it  was  not 
enough  to  dream;  and  still  less  worth  while  only  to 
write  down  the  dreams. 

No;  no;  there  was  something  in  me  that  rebelled 
against  the  best  that  was  offered  to  me  by  life  as  so 
far  I  had  known  it. 

There  must  be  something  else;  somewhere,  or  some- 
how, if  I  could  only  find  it.  What  was  it?  IF  here 
was  it  to  be  found? 


But,  as  the  wind  howled  about  the  house,  I  grew 
weary  of  my  longings  after  the  intangible,  the  un- 
known. 

I  thought  of  how  the  surf  must  be  smashing  and 
shouting  upon  South  Beach. 

And  I  longed  to  escape  from  myself,  and  go  out 
to  the  sea  and  the  wind. 

I  felt  a  desire  to  rush  through  the  sedge  grass  at 
the  end  of  Long  Pond  and  gaze  out  into  the  hill- 
broth  of  white  foam,  boiling,  seething  and  crashing 
in  the  weltering  blackness,  under  the  scud  of  flying 
rack,  with  the  wind  cutting  off  the  white  heads  of 
the  breakers  as  if  the  swords  of  the  Princes  of  the 
Air  were  at  war! 

The  clock  neared  four  o'clock.  Soon  it  would  be 
day.  When  I  was  writing  at  South  Beach,  I  used  to 
arise  at  this  hour  to  write  of  my  morning  joy. 

Now  I  sat  up  in  the  night  writing  of  my  quest  after 
the  Grail  of  Joy.  Well,  in  night  as  in  morning,  in 
sickness  as  in  health,  in  cold,  killing  storms,  as  in 
the  bland,  caressing  sunshine  I  must  maintain  my 
quest. 


184  The  High  Romance 

Let  night  make  me  think  of  day;  let  sickness  remind 
me  of  health.  I  will  fight  on  against  all  sickness. 
I  will  fight  it  in  other  ways  than  in  words.  The  storm 
evokes  the  remembrance  of,  and  the  longing  for, 
the  warm,  gladdening,  life-cherishing  sunshine;  and 
storm  and  darkness  and  disease  bring  up  the  thought 
that  from  man's  life  should  never  go: — 

From  storm  and  darkness  and  disease,  and  death, 
0  man  deliver  thyself! 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  DARK   NIGHT   OF   THE   SOUL 

1.  Boiling  The  Pot 

THE  summer  was  over,  winter  was  near;  the  flimsy 
seaside  cottage  would  soon  be  quite  uninhabit- 
able; we  had  no  furniture,  no  roof  of  our  own;  it  was 
time  to  seek  shelter  for  the  boreal  months. 

For  part  of  the  time  after  my  expedition  to  Katama 
beach  I  had  been  away  from  the  island  travelling 
for  a  magazine,  gathering  material  for  special  arti- 
cles. I  had  deplorably  failed  with  these,  from  the 
magazine's  point  of  view.  My  articles  had  been  too 
personal  in  tone.  What  the  magazine  wanted  was  its 
own  tone,  which,  it  appears,  I  was  unable  to  catch; 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  was  unable  to  hear  it.  My 
articles  had  interested  me  so  much  that  I  could  only 
write  them  in  my  own  way.  I  recognized  the  right 
of  the  magazine  to  demand  its  own  way;  and  relations 
were  broken  off.  One  of  my  commissions  had  been 
to  visit  and  investigate  a  great  sanitarium.  When  the 
magazine  refused  to  accept  my  account  of  this  institu- 
tion, I  interested  another  magazine  in  the  same  story, 
and  I  decided  to  go  to  the  sanitarium  again  with  my 
family,  as  I  could  live  very  cheaply  there.  As  to 
plans  beyond  a  month  or  two,  I  had  none.  Perhaps 
we  would  go  to  New  York  for  the  winter;  or  maybe 
we  would  buy  a  tent  and  roam  about  in  Southwestern 

185 


186  The  High  Romance 

Texas,  or  Arizona,  or  Southern  California;  living  a 
gipsy  life  such  as  we  lived  in  old  days  outside  San 
Antonio. 

My  mind  was  working  furiously,  and  so  was  my 
hand  in  writing  down  what  the  mind  was  thinking; 
there  was  confusion  both  in  mind  and  in  writing,  but 
amid  the  welter  of  ideas,  of  desires,  and  the  clamant 
voices  of  urgent  immediate  needs,  there  was  always 
the  inner  voice  of  my  firmest  idea,  my  strongest  de- 
sire, my  most  imperious  need — the  inner  voice  that 
commanded  the  building  of  my  house  of  crystal;  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  only  by  going  away  into  some 
country  place,  or  into  the  wilderness,  could  I  secure 
the  time  and  leisure  necessary.  However,  first  of  all, 
I  had  to  make  some  money;  so,  in  New  York,  I  boiled 
the  pot  for  Sunday  newspapers,  and  secured  commis- 
sions from  magazines  for  articles  and  short  stories. 

At  this  time  I  once  more  met  Upton  Sinclair.  He 
had  just  finished  his  novel,  "The  Metropolis,"  and 
was,  like  myself,  desirous  of  forming  some  plan  for 
the  winter  that  would  be  more  congenial  than  living 
in  New  York.  I  told  him  of  my  idea  of  living  in 
a  tent  in  the  Southwest,  or  of  travelling  with  a  wagon ; 
we  put  our  heads  together  and  evolved  the  following 
plan,  which  a  magazine  approved  of  to  the  extent  of 
signing  an  agreement  to  accept  a  number  of  articles 
describing  our  project  as  it  proceeded.  I  will  copy 
our  prospectus,  for  it  shows  the  state  of  my  mind  at 
that  time. 

2.  Utopia  on  the  Trek 

"Introduction;  The  talking  out  of  the  plan; 
introduce    the     Revolutionist     (Sinclair)     and    the 


A  Dark  Night  of  the  Soul  187 

Dreamer  (myself)  with  their  families.  They  have 
spent  their  lives  in  a  battle  with  the  evil  forces  of 
Society;  with  poverty,  sickness  and  despair.  They 
have  come  out  of  the  social  pit.  One  had  been  a  hack 
writer,  living  in  garrets  and  shanties.  The  other 
began  life  as  an  errand  boy  in  a  department  store; 
has  been  a  journalist  and  a  literary  free-lance;  has 
had  a  death-grapple  with  consumption,  and  cured  him- 
self by  the  outdoor  life.  They  had  won  their  right 
to  live,  and  were  seeking  for  some  happier  way  to 
bring  up  their  children  than  civilization  afforded ;  but 
their  efforts  ended  in  a  disastrous  fire  (Helicon  Hall) 
from  which  they  escaped  with  nothing  except  their 
lives  and  the  knowledge  they  had  painfully  gained 
on  the  road  to  happiness.  They  rendezvous  at  Battle 
Creek,  (a  sort  of  headquarters  for  the  "nature  cure" 
enthusiast)  and  take  stock  of  their  physical  condition, 
and  set  out  once  more  to  seek  a  way  to  live  out  their 
convictions. 

"Our  plan  is  a  perambulating  colony,  a  Helicon 
Hall  on  the  hoof;  a  migratory  home,  warranted  fire- 
proof, and  free  from  landlords  and  steam-heat,  and 
taxes.  Our  wives  will  escape  flat-hunting;  the  serv- 
ant problem  will  be  solved,  and  dress  will  cease 
to  worry  us.  We  shall  set  out  about  the  first  of  the 
year,  with  a  couple  of  big  surveying  wagons  and 
teams  in  South  California.  We  shall  have  our  wives 
and  three  children,  between  the  ages  of  three  and 
six:  also  a  governess  and  a  stenographer  and  a  cook, 
and  two  young  poets,  who  will  help  with  the  men's 
work.  They  are  all  friends,  and  all  but  one  or  two 
were  at  Helicon  Hall.  We  plan  to  wander  here  and 
there,  living  out-doors  all  the  time,  camping  now  and 


188  The  High  Romance 

then,  by  the  seashore  or  up  in  the  mountains,  while 

we  do  our  writing.     We  shall  go  north  as  the  summer 

advances,  seeing  everything  on  the  Pacific  Coast  that 

I    interests  us;   the  Point  Loma   Colony;  the   Carmel 

V  group  of  literary  people,  the  Anarchist  "Freeland," 

^    San  Francisco,  Berkeley,  and  the  Yosemite  Valley. 

(Williams  was  a  city  editor  in  San  Francisco  at  the 

time  of  the  earthquake,   and  will  have   interesting 

impressions  to  review.) 

"The  story  of  the  trip  will  not  be  in  any  sense  a 
mere  record  of  travel.  It  will  be  an  intimate  and 
personal  account  of  a  new  life  experience,  that  will 
be  a  life  experience  open  to  all  in  the  new  civiliza- 
tion whose  dawn  we  hope  to  greet  while  on  the  trek. 
It  will  be  a  health  pilgrimage,  a  paean  to  the  out- 
door life.  There  will  be  brown-legged  babies,  and 
camp  adventures  galore;  we  shall  tell  how  we  live 
and  what  we  eat  and  how  much  it  costs  us,  and  what 
are  the  ideas  behind  all  our  ways.  We  are  wor- 
f  shippers  of  sunshine  and  fresh  air  and  cold  water 
and  the  simple  life;  we  use  no  alcohol  nor  tobacco, 
-  )  tea  nor  coffee,  nor  the  corpses  of  our  fellow-creatures. 
We  shall  have  books  and  music  and  a  panoramic 
school  for  our  children;  and  glimpses  of  these  will 
appear  in  our  record;  but  whatever  sociological  or 
philosophical  opinions  may  be  voiced  will  begin  and 
end  with  good  humour. 

"The  story  will  be,  from  first  to  last,  full  of 
enthusiasm  and  the  spirit  of  adventure.  We  plan 
this  method  of  life  as  something  which  others  may 
follow,  and  we  expect  to  follow  it  ourselves  in  other 
parts  of  the  world — next  year  in  England,  France  and 
Italy." 


A  Dark  Night  of  the  Soul  189 

3.  The  Book  of  Good  Health 

Our  plans  became  known  and  how  the  press  roasted 
us;  the  vials  of  ridicule  being  poured  out,  of  course, 
more  especially  on  Sinclair's  head;  I  being  com- 
paratively unknown.  However,  all  this  fuss  had  its 
commercial  value  as  advertising,  so  we  could  afford 
to  shrug  our  shoulders. 

But  there  were  certain  reasons  of  a  personal  kind, 
concerning  my  collaborator  more  than  me,  which  pre- 
vented an  immediate  start  on  the  trek;  so  Sinclair 
proposed  that  we  should  all  go  to  Bermuda  for  the 
first  months  of  the  winter,  making  our  start  in  Cali- 
fornia in  tlie  spring.  It  would  be  an  expensive  proj- 
ect, to  be  sure;  but  perhaps  after  all  no  more  expen- 
sive than  living  in  New  York,  and  we  could 
recuperate,  financially,  while  on  the  trek.  So  we 
adopted  this  plan,  and  went  to  Bermuda;  and  were 
barely  settled  in  a  beautiful  bay  in  Somerset  before 
events  befell  of  a  kind  which  caused  my  collaborator 
to  feel  that  the  trek  plan  must  be  abandoned.  We 
decided  to  write  another  book  together,  to  take  the 
place  of  the  trek  adventures;  a  book  relating  in  a 
popular  way  those  ideas  and  methods  of  modem 
hygiene  in  which  we  both  believed  and  which  ap- 
peared to  us  as  part  and  parcel  of  the  effort  of  the 
human  race,  consciously  and  by  power  of  will,  to 
banish  unnecessary  suffering  and  disease,  and  to 
create  for  itself  a  real  Utopia. 

Good  Health,  and  How  We  Found  It;  was  our 
title. 

I  was,  of  course,  quite  positive  that  the  title  exactly 
expressed  the  qase — so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  at 


190  The  High  Romance 

least;  therefore,  was  I  not  plainly  called  upon  to  give 
the  world  my  message? 
Obviously! 


4.  Humpty  Dumpty  Has  a  Great  Fall 

When  the  health  book  was  written  I  returned  to 
New  York.  The  financial  panic  of  1908  was 
rumbling  like  an  expiring  storm  on  the  national 
horizon,  and  I  found  New  York  still  frightened  and 
very  cautious  in  buying  anything.  It  was  impossible 
to  get  a  magazine  to  purchase  the  health  book  for 
serial  publication;  all  I  could  do  was  to  obtain  a  book 
publisher.  However,  there  were  magazine  editors 
who  wanted  stories,  so  once  again  I  sat  down  to  write 
things  to  sell. 

An  editor  of  a  popular  magazine  told  me  one  day 
that  he  had  to  have  a  new  serial  in  hand  within  six 
weeks  or  so,  and  that  he  was  in  despair — ^he  could 
not  find  the  novel  he  wanted;  a  novel  full  of  action, 
with  "something  doing"  in  every  chapter,  and  a  crisis, 
at  the  end  of  each  instalment. 

On  the  spur  of  the  moment  I  said:  "I'll  write  you 
such  a  novel." 

He  said  (looking  at  me  over  his  spectacles,  his 
kind,  grizzled  face  smiling) :  "Have  you  one  on  the 
stocks?" 

"No,  I  haven't;  but  I  can  write  one." 

"Dear  boy,  don't  try  such  a  thing;  because,  first  of 
all,  you  ought  not  to  work  like  that;  and  I  can  promise 
you  absolutely  nothing — " 

I  said :  "I  ask  for  no  promise,  but  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  to  write  that  novel." 


A  Dark  Night  of  the  Soul  191 

He  said:     "Go  to  it,  then,  and  the  best  of  luck." 

So  I  went  home,  and  sat  down  to  write  a  novel  in 
six  weeks. 

I  resolved  not  to  leave  the  house  until  it  was  written. 
My  wife  was  to  manage  the  meals.  The  roof-top 
was  to  supply  air  and  exercise,  in  the  coolth  of  the 
summer  nights.  We  were  living  in  two  rooms  on  the 
top  floor  of  a  lodging  house.  I  was  so  certain  that 
I  was  going  to  write  and  sell  my  novel,  that  I  engaged 
a  stenographer,  and  day  after  day,  night  after  night, 
I  dictated  or  wrote,  to  the  amount  of  from  three  to 
six  thousand  words  daily. 

I  had  conceived  the  plot  of  a  mystery  tale;  jewels; 
Oriental  secret  circles  of  fanatic  assassins  (an  un- 
conscious plagiarism  of  Wilkie  Collins,  no  doubt) ; 
exciting,  rapid,  tense. 

I  had  hardly  got  into  the  third  chapter,  however, 
before  the  confounded  thing  that  ought  to  have  been 
a  rattling,  pot-boiling  serial  yam  turned  around  on 
me  with  a  new  face — ^the  face  of  my  dreams, — and 
the  passion  that  is  in  my  soul,  the  passionate  quest  for 
truth,  boiled  up  and  overmastered  me. 

I  said  to  myself  with  arrogant  wilfulness:  "Never 
mind!  I'll  go  on  and  do  both  things;  I  will  write  a 
book  that  will  be  a  popular  slam-bang  novel;  and  it 
will  also  express  my  real  interests!  It  will  be  a  tale 
of  material  adventures  which  shall  symbolize  the 
higher  adventures  of  the  soul.  It  will  be  a  book  of 
the  new  and  better  age,  the  dawn  of  which  is  opening 
dimly  yet  certainly  in  America." 

And  with  this  mood  upon  me,  and  daily  growing 
more  tense  and  urgent,  I  forged  ahead  with  the  work. 

Our  rooms  were  next  to  the  roof  of  the  house,  with 


192  The  High  Romance 

nothing  between  us  and  the  sun  but  the  flimsy  plaster- 
ing; and — but  you  know  your  New  York  in  the  hot 
days;  and  the  nights  were  worse;  even  when  we  went 
upon  the  roof  and  talked,  and  watched  the  dim  stars 
in  the  smoky  sky,  or  the  yellowish  moon,  and  dreamed 
our  dreams. 

And  thus  I  spilled  myself  out  on  paper,  wasting 
my  soul  in  feverish  words,  and  as  I  walked  upon  the 
roof,  under  the  towering  cliffs  of  surrounding  sky 
scrapers,  in  this  canyon  among  mountainous  houses, 
with  the  hot  clamour  of  the  town  beating  upon  and 
around  me,  and  the  lights  from  Broadway  streaming 
high  into  the  sky,  and  the  lives  of  four  millions  boil- 
ing and  seething  for  many  miles  in  all  directions — 
as  thus  I  walked,  I  say,  there  were  moments  when  I 
felt  that  I  held  the  city  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand, 
studying  it  as  a  sculptor  might  study  a  lump  of  clay, 
and  that  with  my  fingers  I  could  mould  it  into  what 
shape  I  choose.  ...  I  was,  you  see — the  Artist; 
the  new  master  of  the  new  life  of  men! 


Having  reached  which  exalted  condition,  it  was,  of 
course,  time  for  a  fall. 

It  came,  in  a  familiar  fashion;  a  hard,  far,  shatter- 
ing fall. 

I  remember  the  moment  with  stark  vividness. 

I  was  alone  in  tlie  house  one  very  hot  afternoon.  I 
was  working  on  a  page  in  one  of  the  chapters  which 
dealt  with  the  efforts  of  one  of  i^y  characters  to  cure 
himself  of  tuberculosis,  when  all  of  a  sudden  there 
was  a  click,  or  gurgle,  deep  down  in  my  throat;  my 
mouth  filled  with  something  hot,  something  with  a 


A  Dark  Night  of  the  Soul  193 

taste  that  I  recognized ;  I  coughed  and  then  something 
spattered  the  page  and  the  paragraph  dealing  with  my 
consumptive  character — and  the  something  was  red. 


Do  you  remember  Crusoe  staring  at  the  footprint 
in  the  sand  of  his  lonely  island?  Figure  me,  staring 
at  this  red  warning — staring;  but  I'll  spare  you  any 
description  of  my  thoughts;  indeed,  to  describe  them 
would  necessitate  the  invention  of  sentiments  ap- 
propriate to  the  occasion,  since,  in  reality,  my  cere- 
bration was  suspended,  and,  like  Crusoe,  I  stood  like 
one  confounded,  or  as  if  I  had  seen  an  apparition. 

Some  of  my  readers  may  be  soldiers,  hunters, 
adventurers.  Blood  does  not  affright  you,  even  your 
own.  That's  all  right.  That  is  as  it  should  be.  But 
I  wish  that  I  could  lose  my  blood  on  a  battle  field; 
in  some  stand-up-and-have-it-out-and-may-the-best- 
man-win  kind  of  fight;  losing  it  through  some  clean 
fierce  sword  thrust  or  bullet  hole,  rather  than  in  this 
miserable  fashion.  It  makes  me  angry  to  have  some 
confounded  blood-vessel  spring  a  leak,  and  put  me 
on  my  back;  I  feel  as  some  commander  must  feel  when 
one  of  his  trusted  men  fails  him  at  some  critical 
juncture.  I  need  all  my  blood  in  my  work.  I  am 
ashamed,  too,  when  it  fails;  because  it  is  a  part  of  me; 
and  I  want  to  be  sound — I  will  be  sound — I  shall  be 
sound! — I  want  to  be  sound  through  and  through,  up 
and  down,  inside  and  outside,  body,  and  mind,  and 
soul. 


194  The  High  Romance 

5.  The  Dark  Night 

But  I  had  to  go  on  with  my  work,  anyhow. 

So  I  pulled  myself  together;  the  chief  factor  in 
my  rally  being  my  sheer  incredulity — I  simply  could 
not  believe  that  my  lungs  were  affected  again.  I 
had  been  examined  several  times  during  the  past  year; 
everything  was  sound  and  I  was  in  fine  shape,  the 
doctors  had  assured  me;  my  lung  capacity  having 
been  increased  so  that  it  was  distinctly  above  the 
average.  And  I  had  written  the  health  book  on  the 
assumption  that  I  was  a  cured  man,  a  well  man;  I 
had  written  scores  of  articles  on  the  same  assumption ; 
I  had  planned  and  already  written  a  large  part 
of  the  book  of  the  Crystal  House  on  that  founda- 
tion. 

It  was  utterly  absurd  to  believe  that  I  was  wrong. 
I  was  a  fool  to  be  afraid. 

I  had  been  overworking  in  the  heat  and  airless- 
ness  of  the  city  room;  this  would  explain  matters; 
some  little  blood-vessel  had  burst;  it  was  a  warning; 
it  could  be  nothing  more. 

And  so  firmly  did  I  hold  to  this  view  of  the  matter, 
that  I  did  not  have  a  physician  examine  me;  and 
after  a  week  or  so  I  had  well  nigh  forgotten  the 
episode. 

There  were  times,  though,  when  the  red  hiero- 
glyphic came  before  my  mental  vision;  then  I  de- 
liberately turned  away  from  it. 

My  wife,  however,  wanted  me  to  get  away  from  the 
city;  and  so  we  made  up  our  minds  to  return  to 
Martha's  Vineyard,  where  I  could  sleep  out  of  doors. 


A  Dark  Night  of  the  Soul  195 

So  we  got  out  of  town  right  away,  and  at  Martha's 
Vineyard,  I  finished  my  book. 

What  a  book! 

Neither  fish  nor  flesh  nor  good  red  herring.  The 
most  impossible  book,  I  think,  that  ever  was  written. 
In  all  my  long  career  of  writing  unsalable  manu- 
scripts I  had  never  created  anything  quite  so  impos- 
sible as  this  new  novel,  which  finally,  I  threw  in  the 
fire. 

But  at  the  time,  of  course,  I  would  not  recognize 
facts,  and  I  tried  hard  to  sell  the  thing.  When  its 
failure  was  palpable,  I  cursed  the  editors,  and  packed 
my  bag  for  the  journey  back  to  New  York,  back  to  the 
market  place. 

I  well  remember  that  morning! 

I  had  left  my  bed  feeling  irritable  and  disgusted 
with  myself;  precisely  why,  I  did  not  know.  There 
were  a  score  of  reasons  for  feeling  blue,  and  how 
was  I  to  decide  between  their  conflicting  and  sneering 
claims?  They  ran  through  my  head,  these  reasons, 
intolerably  chattering,  and  quarrelling;  exhibiting 
their  vulgarities,  their  frailties,  and  disagreeable 
stupidities  with  all  the  naive  rudeness,  the  smutchy 
brazenness  of  a  mob  of  ill-bred  urchins  shrilling  their 
contentions  concerning  some  trivial  yet  offensive 
subject.  And  each  one  of  them,  down  to  the  most 
obscure  and  feeblest  voice,  assumed  to  speak,  for  the 
time,  with  the  voice  of  my  very  self.  Going  to  my 
writing  room,  I  drank  strong  coffee,  and  smoked  a 
cigarette  or  two  and  languidly  toyed  with  my  work; 
and  then  gave  myself  up  to  this  mood  of  disenchant- 
ment— as  completely  as  I  abandoned,  without  the  pre- 


196  The  High  Romance 

tence  of  a  struggle,  my  hygienic  program  of  absti- 
nence from  drugs  like  nicotine  and  caffein  and  alco- 
hol, and  I  said  something  like  this,  to  myself: 

"What  the  devil  was  the  use? 

"Here's  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish.  I  can't  go  on  work- 
ing at  a  magazine  article,  because  the  very  thought 
of  clattering  the  keys  of  a  typewriter  makes  me  ill. 
Yet  I  know  very  well  that  I  ought  to  be  doing  so — 
I  need  the  money;  and  never,  never  shall  I  be  able 
to  give  myself  up  to  the  writing  of  anything  better 
than  a  magazine  article  unless  I  first  get  some  money. 
And  I  can't  attempt  anything  better,  in  such  a  state 
of  mind  as  this,  for  I  would  be  like  unto  a  lover  ex- 
pressing his  passion  to  his  mistress  through  the 
cachinnations  of  a  bad  cold  in  his  head;  or  like  a 
singer  trying  to  achieve  pure  tone  with  a  quinsy  sore 
throat;  in  fine,  I  am  utterly  disgusted  with  myself!" 

And  I  would  not  listen  to  the  inner  voice  which 
tried  to  tell  me  that  even  out  of  my  grey  moods  I 
might  weave  purple  banners;  that  out  of  my  doubts 
and  despondencies  and  despairs  I  might  extract  the 
quintessential  oil  of  art. — 

I  threw  some  manuscripts  together,  and  fled  back  to 
town. 


In  going  to  New  York  from  Martha's  Vineyard,  it 
is  necessary  to  change  boats  at  New  Bedford.  It  was 
on  a  Sunday  when  I  made  the  journey,  and  travel 
was  so  heavy  that  I  found  it  impossible  to  procure  a 
stateroom,  or  even  a  berth  in  a  stateroom.  The  notion 
of  passing  the  night  in  the  fetid  atmosphere  below 
decks  in  the  common  cabin  repelled  me  utterly,  so  I 


A  Dark  Night  of  the  Soul  197 

resolved  to  stay  on  deck  the  most  of  the  time,  taking 
cat-naps  in  the  main  cabin. 

It  was  a  windless  night;  the  atmosphere  clogged 
with  the  fumes  of  the  great  forest  fires  burning  every- 
where along  the  coast  from  Cape  Cod  to  Maine.  The 
West  when  the  invisible  sun  went  down  was  thickly 
horrible  with  a  red  like  old  blood;  the  air  was  heavy; 
sounds  like  the  swash  of  waves,  the  throbbing  of  the 
machinery,  the  tolling  of  a  reef  bell,  the  far-off 
whistle  of  a  passing  steamship,  came  to  my  ears  as 
through  a  muffling  of  crepe.  It  was  a  night  made  for 
a  lamentable  and  gigantic  disaster;  but  this  portentous 
impression  faded  as  the  west  died  out  into  grey,  and 
then  into  black;  and,  as  I  sat  on  deck  muffled  in  a 
coat,  my  mind  turned  to  other  thoughts. 

I  said  to  myself  that  I  was  a  pretty  poor  specimen 
of  a  man — of  a  man  such  as  I  wished  to  be;  and  was 
it  worth  while  trying  to  be  other  than  the  scallawag 
and  weakling  that  at  bottom  I  knew  myself  to  be? 

But  was  I  wholly  a  scallawag  and  a  weakling  at 
bottom? 

At  bottom,  did  I  not  also  have  a  goodly  share  of 
the  qualities  which  make  up  a  decent  man? 

I  didn't  know;  I  was  sure  of  nothing;  only  this 
was  I  sure  of — ^the  big  ship  was  carrying  me  along 
with  it,  on,  on,  on — towards  the  unknown,  towards 
life  still  to  be  lived ;  that  was  all  of  which  I  could  be 
sure. 

And  I  turned  toward  this  thought.  I  tried  to 
extract  new  courage  and  hope  from  it. 

Life — life  in  the  future,  towards  which  the 
throbbing  ship  was  bearing  me, — surely  it  would 
claim  more  from  me  than  weak  thoughts;  more  than 


198  The  High  Romance 

the  dreams  of  a  feverish  artist,  more  than  the  troubled 
meditations  and  the  feeble  works  of  a  self-made, 
perchance  self -ruined,  egotistical  writer. 

Action  of  a  forthright  nature  would  be  asked  of 
me  as  well  as  the  written  word. 

What  would  this  action  be? 

I  did  not  know;  ah,  would  I  ever  know? 

When  would  this  restless  wandering  of  body  and 
mind  and  soul  be  over? 

Health  was  fled  again.  In  my  heart,  despite  my 
obstinate  refusal  to  recognize  the  fact,  I  knew  that 
I  was  breaking  down. 

And  my  work  was  getting  farther  and  farther  away, 
it  seemed,  from  all  chance  of  success. 

After  all  my  vain  dreamings,  was  I  now  to  face 
and  acknowledge  failure  most  positive  and  per- 
manent? 


For  more  than  three  hours  I  walked  up  and  down, 
that  night,  on  the  deck  of  the  boat,  trying  to  get  at 
grips  with  myself,  and  to  see  things  as  they  really 
were;  my  troubled  soliloquy  running  something  like 
this: — 

"I  am  now  more  than  thirty  years  old,  poor  and 
heavily  in  debt.  I  am  sick,  and  getting  worse,  for 
my  youthful  energy  is  failing.  I  have  written  much, 
but  nearly  everything  that  amounted  to  anything  was 
destroyed  in  the  Helicon  Hall  disaster.  The  publish- 
ers and  editors  apparently  believe  in  my  talent,  and 
are  helping  me  to  achieve  mastery  of  my  instrument 
of  expression;  but  they  do  not  understand  what  I 
want  to  write;  they  seemingly  want  me  to  write  what 


A  Dark  Night  of  the  Soul  199 

they  want.  They  are  kind,  and  try  to  be  helpful,  and 
they  are  doubtless  right  in  many  of  their  criticisms 
of  my  work — yet  I  know  they  are  not  wholly  right. 
Literature  is  not  produced  by  writing  for  the  market. 
Art  is  not  commercialism.  I  must  make  a  definite 
choice;  either  I  must  write  for  myself,  despite  every- 
thing; or  write  for  the  market. 

"As  for  all  the  mistakes,  and  blunders,  and  sins 
of  the  past — all  that  matters  little,  save  as  I  make  use 
of  what  has  happened.  I  still  hope  to  turn  all  that 
to  good  account. 

"I  am  saturated  with  life.  My  feet  know  city 
pavements  equally  with  country  earth  and  the  un- 
stable decks  of  ships  at  sea;  I  have  sat  with  the  poor 
at  bread  and  water  and  with  the  rich  at  meat  and 
wine;  I  have  been  lover  and  husband  and  father;  I 
have  toiled  in  the  world's  work  in  many  fashions;  I 
suffer  from  the  most  characteristic  disease  of  the  time; 
I  am  steeped  in  the  peculiar  sins  of  the  age;  also, 
however,  I  dream  the  dream  of  the  age,  and  share 
at  least  partially  the  possession  of  the  virtues  of  to- 
day— the  dream  of  true  Brotherhood,  the  virtues  of 
faith,  hope,  and  love. 

"And  I  know  I  have  ability  to  write ;  I  have  ability 
to  do  even  more  positive  acts.  Therefore,  I  may  hope 
to  be  a  truthful  voice  of  my  age,  in  that  I  am  equipped 
with  knowledge,  experience,  sympathy,  ability;  but 
the  crucial  question  is: — Have  I  the  requisite  strength 
and  endurance,  bodily,  mental,  spiritual,  left  over 
from  the  endless  and  often  foolish  expenditures  of 
energy  in  many  forms  which  my  life  has  known;  the 
energy  I  need  in  order  to  shape  adequately  the  utter- 
ance which  a  voice  of  the  age  must  give? 


200  The  High  Romance 

"There  is  only  one  way  in  which  I  can  answer  this 
question — by  putting  myself  to  the  test." 

And,  after  all, — I  thought — this  period  of  failure 
is  but  one  more  lesson  in  that  course  in  life's  univer- 
sity, the  object  of  which  is  to  fit  me  (if  the  task  be 
possible!)  to  perform  the  work  of  an  artist — a  lesson 
the  text  of  which  is:  "Nothing  that  happens  to  you 
has  any  value  or  significance  unless  it  is  something 
you  can  make  use  of  as  an  artist." 


Quite  true,  0  my  soul,  I  said  to  myself,  thou  calm 
one,  serene  philosopher! — but,  first  of  all,  please 
stanch  the  bleeding  of  the  wound  in  my  heart;  still 
that  sound  as  of  sobbing  which  goes  on  in  the  shad- 
owy places  of  my  being. 

It  is  like  the  sobbing  of  a  child. 

For  there  is  a  child  in  my  heart,  eager  to  play,  fain 
to  trust  and  to  love;  a  child  always  looking  out  won- 
deringly  and  joyfully  upon  a  world  ever  new  and 
ever-changing,  a  world  where  everything  is  possible. 


Let  me  hasten  to  an  ending. 
I  grow  weary. 

When  I  grow  weary,  I  begin  to  cough.     And  then 
I  think  of  things  not  pleasant  to  face. 


Yes,  I  grow  weary.  The  past  few  months  have 
severely  taxed  me;  I  have  drawn  heavily  on  my  re- 
serve store  of  energy;  yet  I  must  go  on  spending  for 
some  time  at  kast, 


A  Dark  Night  of  the  Soul         201 

— The  little,  blue  devils  of  melancholia  make  many 
attempts  to  seize  my  soul.  0,  shapes  of  gloom,  why 
do  you  haunt  me? 

So,  during  those  three,  long  hours,  on  that  bitter 
night,  each  second  of  which  was  a  great  misery,  I 
descended  into  the  hell  of  my  own  soul  and  was 
tormented. 

Three  hours!  Three  times  the  slow  pointers  circled 
the  innumerable  clocks  of  the  world;  and  the  seconds 
ticked  and  tocked.  I  walked  without  resting,  up  and 
down;  I  watched  the  foam-flecked  sea;  I  sought  to 
hide  my  dark  spirit  in  the  darkness  of  the  night;  and 
I  drank  deeply  of  my  bitter  pain. 

I  felt  myself  a  tiny  speck  amid  a  billion,  billion, 
trillion,  tiny  specks;  restless  on  the  surface  of  a 
restless  earth;  pursuing  a  blind  voyage  nowhither. 
Who  was  I?     What  did  I  matter?     Nothing  at  all. 

Tick-tock:  the  seconds  swung;  the  three,  dark  hours 
accomplished  their  part  in  the  progress  of  time's  un- 
fathomable destiny. 

And  as  each  second  swung  its  slow  pendulum, 
there  was  the  gasp  of  a  dying  man,  or  woman,  or 
child;  there  was  the  agony  of  a  birth;  there  was  the 
cry  of  a  new-bom  child;  assassins  thrust  or  shot; 
gold  was  mined;  toilers  toiled;  ships  sank  at  sea; 
the  keels  of  new  ships  were  laid;  poets  dreamed; 
prophets  were  enrapt — 

So  Life  surged,  throughout  the  earth:  and  through- 
out a  billion  billion  universes,  life  surged. 

And  during  those  three  hours,  the  earth  moved 
onward  a  certain  space,  and  swung  through  a  certain 
segment  of  its  circle  on  its  poles;  and  so  moved  and 
so  swung  a  billion  billion  worlds. 


202  The  High  Romance 

— And  I — the  speck  of  flesh  and  the  spark  of  spirit 
— there  on  the  sea,  dark  in  the  dark  night,  drinking 
my  pain — I  said  to  myself  that  there  could  be  no 
profit  in  wasting  this  strange  time  which  is  all  the 
Eternity  man  can  yet  dimly  know,  unless  I  could  bring 
back  with  me  from  my  descent  into  hell  a  measure 
of  words,  to  be  arranged  on  paper.  I  am  a  reporter; 
a  war  correspondent  of  the  war  of  Man  with  Darkness, 
and  I  will  and  must  report  what  I  find,  to  the  limits 
of  my  vision,  as  best  I  may;  even  in  the  infernal  re- 
gions, blaze  they  never  so  damnably! 


Now  I  must  go  to  work  again.  How  do  matters 
stand? 

Let  me  try  to  understand  the  adventure  which  was 
begun  at  dawn  in  that  mystic  moment  when  I  felt  as 
if  a  hand  had  been  laid  upon  my  shoulder  by  Some- 
body who  desired  me  to  follow,  a  Somebody  who  had 
a  message  for  me.  I  followed,  thank  God!  I  fol- 
lowed, although  I  faltered,  I  stumbled,  I  fell,  I 
groaned,  I  complained,  I  failed  in  task  after  task, 
still  I  followed  in  order  to  communicate  what  I  might 
be  able  to  learn:  and  further  communications  will 
follow  these  stammering  and  faulty  utterances  if  I 
may  live  to  shape  them;  and  I  believe,  despite  every- 
thing, I  believe  I  am  to  live  for  many  years  yet. 

Let  me  try  to  sum  up! 

•  •  •  •  •  •  • 

I  am  a  dreamer  of  dreams;  and  I  have  been  too 
long  merely  the  slave  of  my  fancies;  I  who  would  be 
the  master  of  my  moods  remain  a  led  captive,  and  in 


A  Dark  Night  of  the  Soul         203 

a  sense  my  book  is  my  battle  for  freedom.  Yes,  I 
have  dreamed  too  much,  and  my  waking  hours  have 
been  barren  of  fruitful  work  as  I  tried  to  remember 
and  to  piece  together  into  words  the  fragments  of  my 
dreams — into  words  that  should  evoke  something  of 
the  lustral  beauty  of  the  visions.  And  time  who  helps 
you  to  realize  your  dreams  if  your  will  be  strong 
enough,  but  who  ages  the  unworking  dreamer  in  the 
midst  of  his  dreams,  which  fade  and  pass  like  the 
vain  dreams  of  slumber,  inexorable  time  goes  on  and 
I  have  little  or  nothing  to  show  for  all  my  dreams. 
Therefore,  who  shall  believe  in  them?  Dreams  are 
no  literary  assets.  You  cannot  play  showman  to  the 
phantasmagoria  of  thought.  You  must  dress  your 
puppets ;  you  must  write  the  play  for  them.  .  .  .  And 
yet  I  still  believe  that  my  dreams  are  not  pinchbeck, 
but  true  gold  only  requiring  pressure  in  the  mint  of 
mental  assimilation,  and  the  stamp  of  the  right  words, 
the  coinage  of  art,  to  win  appraisal  at  high  worth  .  .  . 


But  when  am  I  ever  to  essay  the  great  work  of 
realization? 

Upon  me,  now,  as  many  times  before,  there  falls 
captivity  unto  the  unloved  task.  But  I  shall  not  moil 
blindly  and  bitterly,  as  in  the  past.  Poverty,  and 
Death's  henchman  and  grey  familiars,  Sickness  and 
Death  itself,  my  seeming  enemies,  may  even  yet  prove 
to  be  my  friends — ^they  may  be  my  rescuers;  they  may 
inspire  me  afresh  with  knowledge  of  the  necessity  for 
this  unending  struggle  for  existence.  In  this  period 
of  failure  and  of  imprisonment  to  illness  and  poverty, 
I  must  not  chafe  or  repine;  and  whatever  happens  in 


204  The  High  Romance 

the  future,  I  must  not  yield.  I  must  remain  assured 
that  in  the  midst  of  all  the  doubts,  the  darkness,  the 
barriers,  the  uncertainties  which  surround  me,  there 
is  something  to  which  I  can  rally  for  support — there 
is  my  true  self:  the  upright  and  unyielding  I — the 
only  reality  of  which  I  can  be  certain  in  a  universe  of 
illusion  and  ceaseless  change. 

Myself,  and  own  will:  that  is  my  creed — with  this 
necessary  corollary:  that  I  am  one  of  many  others,  all 
of  them  sparks  of  Spirit;  incarnate  items  of  the  Will 
of  Life;  and  we  are  brothers  and  sisters  who  must 
strive  to  console  ourselves  for  our  ineluctable,  essen- 
tial loneliness,  by  mutual  service  and  love;  each 
doing  his  or  her  own  work;  each  fulfilling  his  or  her 
own  function;  artist,  prophet,  workman,  healer;  what- 
ever the  vocation  may  be. 

Can  there  be — may  there  be — Something  beyond, 
and  higher,  than  self -consciousness?  Is  there  per- 
haps a  power  greater  than  that  of  human  will? 

Dimly,  feebly,  these  questions  raised  themselves; 
but  I  only  passed  them  by.  I  returned  to  the  more 
fascinating  theme — the  subject  of  myself. 


So  passed  the  black  night.  In  this  fashion,  I  con- 
soled myself. 

But  Fact  is  stubborn  material,  and  resists  the 
moulding  of  our  desirous  hopes.  I  could  not  escape 
the  consequences  of  my  wilful  folly,  even  if  I  dis- 
guised them  in  the  coloured  garments  of  my  self- 
willed  interpretations. 

Cold,  calm  medical  science  pronounced  its  verdict: 
physically,  anyhow,  I  was  badly  damaged.     And  so 


A  Dark  Night  of  the  Soul  205 

once  more,  I  left  the  city,  and  went  into  the  open 
places;  Arizona,  Mexico,  California, — defeated  and 
broken  down. 


— But,  at  least,  there  was  art,  and  there  was  alco- 
hol; and  when  their  mingled  magic  was  at  work,  the 
golden  dreams  again  were  mine,  and  the  shining  vistas 
of  adventure  opened  before  me. 


PART  II 
THE  HOMEWARD  WAY 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  TESTAMENT   OF   EGOTISM 

1.  California 

ALTHOUGH  my  return  to  the  West  was  in  one 
sense  a  retreat  after  a  lost  battle,  it  was  not  re- 
luctantly that  I  went,  nor  with  sorrow;  because  it  was 
California  that  offered  sanctuary  to  my  wounded  and 
fleeing  soul,  and  there  was  healing  in  her  protective 
hands,  and  consolation  in  her  beauty.  Even  for  ob- 
tuse travellers,  even  for  the  material-minded,  there  is 
a  magical  charm  in  California  which  uniquely  sets  her 
apart  from  all  other  American  scenes.  For  artists 
and  souls  awakened  to  the  spiritual  and  romantic  in- 
fluences of  fair,  stately,  or  historic  places,  the  mystical 
emanation  of  California's  personality  is  ineluctable. 
From  the  beginning,  for  me,  it  was  a  case  of  love 
at  first  sight,  and  my  passion  was  perdurable.  How 
well  I  recall  my  first  pangs  of  pleasure  in  the  journey 
out  of  the  Texas  plains,  through  the  Arizona  desert, 
northward  along  the  vast  Pacific's  verge,  through  the 
coast  range  hills  into  the  Santa  Clara  valley,  riant 
with  peach  and  plum  trees  blossoming  in  millions, 
and  on  to  San  Francisco.  The  potent  gramarye  of 
this  most  beautiful  among  the  States  cast  a  glamour 
upon  me  which  has  never  waned. 

Who  that  has  crossed  the  Sierra  Nevadas  has  not 
experienced  this  penetrating  impression,  this  wizardry 


210  The  High  Romance 

of  a  land  whose  soul  is  sealed  with  romantic  beauty? 
But  who  shall  define  it?  Who  may  weave  the  verbal 
nets  which  shall  capture  the  delicate  birds  of  beauty 
which  sing  in  the  secret  places  of  the  soul?  I  for 
one  shall  not  attempt  the  impossible.  The  essence 
of  beauty,  like  the  secret  of  personality,  is  a  true  mys- 
tery. 

The  peculiar  quality  of  California's  charm  is,  no 
doubt,  traceable  to  many  material  sources  and  faC' 
tors— the  space  relations  and  splendid  shapes  of  many 
mountains,  the  curving  lines  of  the  gracious  valleys, 
the  immense  amplitude  of  wonderful  plains,  the  op- 
ulence and  mystery  of  the  forests,  the  clarity  and 
purity  of  the  light,  the  mightiness  of  the  sea  which 
protects  its  coast,  the  mysterious  veils  of  the  great 
grey  fogs  which  hang  about  its  beauty  the  curtains  of 
illusion,  and  the  ever  present  power  of  the  ardent 
sun — Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure :  but  what  of  the  spirit  under- 
lying all  these  things,  the  strange  spirit  which,  blowing 
where  it  lists,  has  elected  to  place  a  special  seal  of 
romantic  beauty  upon  this  lonely,  lovely  land,  this 
California?  Its  haunting,  occult  bewitchment  yearns 
and  throbs  in  the  songs  of  many  poets,  and  from  these 
wells  of  wonder  and  vistas  of  high  romance  which 
California  opens  for  the  thirsty  souls  of  the  children 
of  America  our  literature  is  being  enriched — think  of 
Miller,  of  certain  stanzas  of  Markham,  of  songs  by 
Ina  Coolbrith,  of  the  verbal  splendour  and  great 
imagination  of  George  Sterling,  of  the  murmurous 
monotone,  so  full  of  elegaic  tristness,  of  Charles 
Warren  Stoddard,  and  of  the  lyrical  though  sad 
ecstasy  of  Nora  May  French. 

As  for  the  painters,  legion  is  their  name,  who  seek 


A  Testament  of  Egotism  211 

to  express  California.  Knight  errants  of  the  ever- 
baffled  quest  for  what  can  never  be  attained,  they  seem 
as  wistful  as  lovers  admitted  to  the  presence  of  the 
beloved  only  to  be  denied  the  consummation  of  their 
dreams.  So  the  pictures  hint;  the  poems  whisper 
their  musical  suggestions;  there  are  great  revelations 
in  certain  pages  of  Bret  Harte;  Stevenson  at  Silerrado 
and  at  Monterey  wrought  pages  pulsatory  with  the 
psychic  presence  of  California's  soul;  Frank  Norris 
has  mirrored  much  of  its  mystery  and  its  striving 
drama  in  his  novels;  Charles  F.  Lummis,  Mary  Austin, 
James  Hopper,  are  prose  artists  who  spread  the  cre- 
ative inspiration  of  California;  yet  none  make  known 
the  inner  secret;  nor  may  they  do  so.  True  beauty, 
I  say  again,  is  a  mystery,  and  mystery  is  communi- 
cable but  not  explicable.  I  am  certain  that  in  that 
good  time  which  is  coming  when  the  United  States 
shall  have  become  a  great,  true  nation  bound  together 
by  something  deeper  even  than  the  bond  of  blood, 
united  by  will,  California's  function  among  her 
sister  states  will  be  comparable  to  the  function 
of  Italy  or  of  Greece  or  France  in  Europe.  We  of 
America  must  make  truly  our  own  that  which  is  ours 
yet  now  neglected.  We  must  weave  into  the  national 
consciousness  the  rich  strains  of  Califomian  legend, 
the  high  romance  of  Spanish  exploration,  of  Spanish 
faith,  and  of  the  Boston  sailors  who  sought  out  this 
far  land,  and  of  the  Missouri  hunters  who  followed 
the  trails  of  sunset  over  the  hills  and  far  away,  and 
through  the  burning  deserts  to  the  limits  of  the  west, 
blazing  the  path  for  the  Argonauts  of  '49. 

California  was  invented  by  an  artist.     Montalvo 
was  his  name.     He  conjured  up  in  the  magic  mirror 


212  The  High  Romance 

of  his  art  an  image  which  later  on  more  "practical" 
men  made  a  reality.  You  will  find  Montalvo's  pen 
portrait  of  the  soul  of  this  state  in  his  novel,  "The 
Deeds  of  Esplandian,  the  Son  of  Amadis  of  Gaul," 
published  in  1510,  eight  years  after  Columbus  sailed 
forth  from  Spain,  his  mission  being  to  fulfil  ancient 
prophecies,  or  so  he  believed,  by  discovering  new 
lands  for  Christ  to  conquer.  Yet  there  are  solemn 
pundits  who  talk  about  the  Genoese  as  the  opener  of 
new  trade  routes  to  the  Indies,  as  a  mere  pawn  of 
"Economic  Necessity,"  that  most  bizarre  and  blood- 
less of  all  the  gods — despite  the  facts  that  stare  you 
in  the  face  in  the  records  of  Columbus — the  great  fact 
being  that  spiritual  and  ideal  interests  led  him  out  on 
the  trails  of  his  high  romance.  To  be  sure,  he  threw 
sops  to  the  lords  of  finance  and  of  commerce,  by  show- 
ing that,  incidentally,  his  voyage  would  be  good  for 
their  business.  Poor  Columbus!  Unescapable  com- 
promise, everlasting  entanglement  of  the  ideal  and  the 
material! 

In  one  of  the  earliest  of  his  reports  to  Isabella 
— the  great  soul  who  understood  his  soul  when  the 
only  ones  who  else  would  listen  to  him  were  cloistered 
monks — Columbus  gave  the  name  of  the  Earthly  Par- 
adise to  the  mesa  region  lying  near  the  headquarters 
of  the  Orinoco  River.  (Let  us  also  remember  that 
when  the  early  explorers  were  not  apostles,  they  were 
very  apt  to  be  dreamers  and  romanticists  who  went 
forth  to  look  for  the  Fountain  of  Youth,  for  the 
Islands  of  the  Blessed,  for  the  land  that  always  seems 
to  lie  just  over  the  edge  of  the  receding  horizon.) 
Montalve  read  Columbus'  report.  His  imagination 
flamed.     He  drew  forth  his  pen,  instead  of  a  sword; 


A  Testament  of  Egotism  213 

he  embarked  upon  the  galleon  of  reverie  instead  of 
a  ship,  and  fully  a  quarter  of  a  century  before  Cortes 
saw  Lower  California,  and  longer  yet  before  Cabrillo 
landed  at  San  Diego,  Montalvo,  the  poet,  discovered 
California,  and  named  it,  too,  leaving  it  to  others  to 
actualize  his  spiritual  conquest.  Listen  to  what  he 
says: — 

"Know  then,  that  on  the  right  hand  of  the  Indies, 
there  is  an  island  called  California,  very  close  to  the 
Terrestrial  Paradise.  .  .  ." 

(No  Calif omian  will  gainsay  this  description  of 
place,  unless,  of  course,  it  is  contended  by  the  more 
ardent  lovers  that  this  is  the  earthly  paradise  in  very 
fact.  Well,  it  is  certainly  as  close  to  it  as  we  may 
arrive.) 

Montalvo  goes  on  to  say  that  of  this  wonderful  land, 
where  precious  gems  were  found  in  great  abundance, 
and  where  the  only  metal  was  gold,  Califia  was  Queen, 
and  after  her  was  the  country  named.  And  this  is 
how  he  describes  her:  "Very  large  in  person,  the 
most  beautiful  of  all,  of  blooming  years,  and  in  her 
thoughts  desirous  of  achieving  great  things;  strong 
of  limb,  and  of  great  courage." 

Tons  of  ink  have  been  used  in  writing  about  Cali- 
fornia; but  has  any  writer  ever  bettered  Montalvo's 
clairvoyant  and  verdical  description  of  the  soul  of 
this  lovely  land? 

"Most  beautiful,  of  blooming  years,  and  in  her 
thoughts  desirous  of  achieving  great  things,  strong 
of  limb  and  of  great  courage!" 


214  The  High  Romance 

2.  Carmel 

At  first  I  did  not  go  back  to  San  Francisco.  We 
settled  in  the  country,  in  a  village  called  Carmel-by- 
the-Sea,  a  few  miles  away  from  the  railroad,  near 
Monterey,  and  there  I  resumed  the  struggle ;  the  triple 
struggle;  first,  to  make  a  living;  second,  to  succeed 
as  an  artist;  third — to  find  that  which  I  was  seeking, 
to  achieve  my  Quest. 

I  was  in  a  shattered  condition,  truly;  so  also  was 
my  Book,  the  chronicle  of  the  Quest,  the  legend  of  my 
efforts  to  build,  or  to  find,  I  hardly  knew  which,  the 
Crystal  House.  Its  whole  point,  its  meaning,  its 
message,  had  been  that  I  had  conquered;  that  I  was 
a  victor — blow  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums! — I,  the 
upright  and  unconquerable,  I. 

And  now,  here  was  this  upright  and  unconquerable 
person  bowled  over,  and  the  book  was  deplorably  out 
of  harmony  with  facts.  However,  I  was  not  ready  to 
admit  that  I  was  beaten.  I  was  down,  but  I  was  not 
yet  counted  out;  and  so  the  struggle  went  on,  year 
after  year,  with  flights  to  the  dry,  warm  deserts  of 
Arizona  from  time  to  time,  when  once  again  the  phys- 
ical machine  would  fail  me. 

There  was  an  old,  broken-down  summer  house  upon 
the  ocean  beach  which  I  begged  from  its  owner,  and 
this  I  carted  back  into  the  pine  woods  on  the  slope 
of  Mount  Carmel,  and  converted  into  a  hut.  It  re- 
minded me  of  the  hut  on  the  other  side  of  the  world, 
on  the  Atlantic  coast,  where  the  voice  of  the  Quest 
had  lured  me  forth  that  mystical  summer  dawn;  and 
in  this  hut  the  Quest  continued. 

Here  I  found  how  true  was  that  saying  of  a  modem 


A  Testament  of  Egotism  215 

mystic,  with  whom  about  this  time  I  began  to  cor- 
respond, after  being  keenly  interested  in  his  work, 
together  with  that  of  another  mystical  author  who 
was  even  more  sympathetic  to  me,  because  more  of 
an  artist.  The  first  was  Arthur  Edward  Waite;  the 
second,  Francis  Grierson.  In  one  of  Waite's  books 
I  discovered  and  made  this  my  own:  "The  world  of 
mind  is  wider  than  the  world  of  matter,  as  it  is  indeed 
older.  In  the  unsounded  depths  of  its  oceans  lies 
the  past  of  all  the  universes;  on  its  heights  are  stars 
that  we  never  see  in  the  common  daylight  of  conscious- 
ness. What  fields  for  exploration — what  vistas  of 
great  adventure!" 

Yes.     It  was  so. 

In  a  very  literal  sense,  it  was  truly  in  the  world  of 
mind,  of  intellectual  effort,  that  I  began  to  adventure ; 
that  is  to  say,  I  began  at  last,  at  long  last  indeed,  to 
consider  myself,  and  the  world,  and  the  invisible  uni- 
verse in  which  I  moved,  from  a  less  emotional,  less 
impulsive,  calmer,  and  more  reasonable  point  of  view. 
I  did  more  thinking;  in  fact,  it  may  be  said  that  I 
began  to  think.  Everything  I  had  written  up  to  this 
time,  and  the  motives  upon  which  I  acted  or  spoke 
or  wrote,  were  spontaneous,  instinctive,  intuitive; 
whether  for  right  or  for  wrong.  It  was  as  if  my 
reckless  soul  had  run  away  from  its  calmer  com- 
panion, the  mind;  so  eager  to  enjoy  the  high  romance 
that  it  simply  threw  itself  into  any  path,  turned  aside 
for  any  new  experience,  no  meadow  escaping  its  riot. 
But  it  had  bruised  itself;  it  had  weakened,  if  not 
broken,  its  wings;  and  though  still  it  cried,  Onward! 
in  its  own  interior  it  knew  that  it  was  weary,  and  some- 
what dreary,  too. 


216  The  High  Romance 

Yet,  even  then,  it  could  sing: — as  it  did  from  a  hos- 
pital bed  to  which  one  day  I  was  carried  when  a  hem- 
orrhage came  upon  me  in  the  street. 

When  I  bethink  me  of  my  weakened  state, 
I  seem  a  soldier  in  whose  fighting  hand, 
At  mid-most  stress  of  battle,  snaps  the  brand 
While  fierce  his  foe  is  pressing,  all  elate 
Because  of  his  misfortune — while  the  fate 
Maybe  of  all  that  issues  high  and  grand 
By  this  one  conflict  needs  must  fall  or  stand — 
Lo,  if  he  doth  not  yield  now  he  is  great! 

Lord  God  of  unseen  battles,  I'll  not  yield! 

I'll  make  this  bed  a  forge  for  a  new  sword; 

My  faith  its  steel,  and  pain  its  point  shall  grind 
For  knightly  service  on  the  world's  grim  field, 

Fighting  for  God  and  smiting  Evil's  horde, 

As  Heine  did,  a  cripple,  and  Milton,  blind. 

Thus  the  wounded  spirit  strove;  but  now  my  mind 
was  allowed  to  examine  the  situation;  to  look  back 
upon  the  campaigns,  and  endeavour  to  judge  the  re- 
sults, and,  more  particularly,  the  morale  of  the  fighter. 
Above  all,  it  did  its  best  to  arrive  at  some  clear  under- 
standing of  what  the  long  struggle  was  all  about! 

For  it  felt  that  at  the  bottom  of  the  business,  back 
of  the  weltering  confusion  of  efforts  and  failures, 
there  was  something  resembling  a  definite  philosophy. 

While  examining  the  huge  mass  of  manuscripts  re- 
sulting from  these  attempts  to  get  at  myself,  and  ex- 
plain myself  to  myself,  and  to  express  the  result  in 
terms  of  art,  I  have  found  one  paper  which  today  I 


A  Testament  of  Egotism  217 

look  upon  as  a  man  might  look  upon  something  ex- 
cessively fantastic  which  he  has  done  during  a  fit  of 
fever,  or  a  nightmare,  or  when  drugged  or  drunk. 
It  is  really  almost  incredible  in  its  effrontery  of  self- 
conceit;  yet  it  so  apdy  illustrates  that  fashion  in  which 
I  tried  to  apply  my  philosophy  of  self-will:  my  belief 
in  the  power  of  affirmative  egotism,  to  my  own  life  and 
work,  that  I  shall  copy  it,  although  it  would  please 
me  much  better  to  put  it  into  the  fire,  here  in  my  hut 
among  the  pines  of  Carmel — the  fire  that  has  now  con- 
sumed so  great  a  part  of  this  amazing  mass  of  mor- 
bidity and  poisonous  products  of  selfishness:  these 
excretions  of  the  auto-intoxication  of  my  soul. 

R.  L.  S.  (who  used  to  roam  these  very  pine  woods, 
upon  a  time,  coughing  and  dreaming,  and  seeking  the 
paths  of  his  high  romance),  has  said  somewhere  that 
the  young  man  who  hasn't  had  courage  to  make  a  fool 
of  himself,  now  and  then,  hasn't  lived  at  all.  Well, 
I've  lived,  anyhow!  And  these  are  the  rules  by  which 
I  tried  to  guide  my  life: — 

My  Book  Of  Canons 

Believing  that  I  am  one  of  those  men  to  whom 
are  given  power  to  affect  human  life  profoundly 
through  their  written  and  spoken  words,  I  deem  it 
necessary  to  set  down  for  my  own  guidance  towards 
the  performance  of  my  best  possible  acts  of  service 
to  mankind,  the  chief  of  those  principles  which  I  con- 
sider to  be  the  basis  of  my  work,  together  with  the 
most  essential  rules  of  conduct  derived  from  these 
principles. 


218  The  High  Romance 

Creed 

I  believe  in  Love.  I  seek  it.  I  will  the  Brother- 
hood of  Man.  I  am  a  romantic,  and  an  idealist.  I 
believe  the  beauty  and  the  joy  to  be  found  here  and 
there  in  this  present  phase  of  human  life  may  be 
vastly  increased,  and  made  general  and  common  for 
all;  and  that  most  of  the  ugly  and  wretched  and  pain- 
ful aspects  of  life  may  be  removed.  All  Property 
that  depends  upon  Poverty  must  be  abolished.  Life 
must  be  re-established  on  a  foundation  of  Love,  not 
of  Profits.  Truth  must  be  recognized  as  man's  only 
safe  guide.  Mutual  aid  among  men  I  hold  (with 
Kropotkin)  to  be  the  chief  factor  in  evolution,  and  I 
deny  that  the  dominating  factor  is  the  false  idea  of 
the  "survival  of  the  fittest,"  or  the  "struggle  for  ex- 
istence," which  are  merely  excuses  for  crime,  cruelty 
and  stupidity.  Mankind  is  progressing  constantly 
towards  a  condition  of  life-in-love,  and  Art  must  be 
made  the  ruling  influence  in  all  things.  Then  man 
in  general  shall  know  a  life  wider  and  deeper  and 
more  glorious  than  any  men  save  a  few  prophetic 
artists  now  dream  of.  My  ideal,  then,  is  to  help  to 
advance  the  race  on  its  journey  to  its  destined  end. 

Practical  Work 

My  practical  work  is  to  write  as  best  I  may  my 
own  thoughts,  ideas,  experiences,  and  aspirations.  It 
must  never  be  actuated  principally  by  desires  for 
money  or  for  fame.  Yet  I  must  also  consider  my 
own  claims  upon  my  own  efforts.  He  who  succeeds 
in  truly  bettering  his  own  condition  does  the  highest 


A  Testament  of  Egotism  219 

thing  that  lies  in  his  power  to  do  for  the  betterment  of 
,  humanity. 

Conditions  Of  Good  Work 

Thoughts,  ideas,  fancies,  creations — these  come  to 
me,  I  know  not  how;  I  know  not  from  whither;  out 
of  the  blue;  out  of  the  country  of  the  soul.  My  mind 
seizes  these  in  its  nets  of  memory;  it  shapes  them,  in 
words.  My  hand  writes  them  down.  Thus  I  discern 
three  elements,  or  factors,  working  together:  the  body, 
the  mind,  the  soul.  It  is  obvious  that  good  work  will 
only  be  done  when  these  three  are  one,  that  is,  prac- 
tically, when  body,  mind  and  soul  co-operate  with  the 
least  possible  amount  of  friction,  and  the  greatest 
possible  amount  of  harmony;  in  other  words,  when 
I  achieve  the  greatest  possible  condition  of  health. 
It  follows  that  therefore  it  is  my  duty  to  be  as  Healthy 
as  I  can.  (Oh,  for  health;  for  the  power  of  good 
health!) 

Concerning  My  Body 

It  is  now  thirty-three  years  old.  It  has  been  shaken 
and  racked  and  badly  damaged  by  tuberculosis;  un- 
questionably, the  germs  of  the  disease  are  still  within 
its  veins  and  cells,  only  awaiting  the  next  time  I  over- 
work, or  dissipate  to  excess,  in  order  to  smash  it  some 
more.  I  have  also,  since  boyhood,  soaked  myself 
with  nicotine  and  alcohol.  My  nerves  have  been 
jangled  and  tampered  with.  Hence,  if  any  good  work 
is  to  be  got  out  of  this  damaged  instrument,  it  is  nec- 
essary to  discipline  it  and  master  its  unruly  tenden- 
cies. 


220  The  High  Romance 

As  To  My  Mind 

Well,  first  of  all,  it  altogether  lacks  training,  edu- 
cation, and  discipline;  but  apparently  it  has  an  innate 
ability  to  transform  the  ideas  generated  by  the  soul 
— or  communicated  through  the  soul,  I  know  not 
which — into  art  forms,  some  quite  good,  others  very 
poor.  Hence,  it  is  plain  that  I  should  use  my  mind 
to  the  limit  of  its  power,  without,  however,  injuring 
it  by  over-work.  I  should  practice  it  in  Concentra- 
tion; which  is  not  the  forcing  of  the  mind  to  work  at 
some  particular  task  or  other,  but  is  the  directing  of 
its  attention  to  the  task  in  hand,  whatever  that  may 
be,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  competing  interests. 

It  should  be  borne  in  mind,  however,  that  a  power- 
ful impulse  to  turn  from  one  task  to  another  task  may 
be  a  signal  from  the  high  places  of  the  soul. 

The  conscious  will  should  only  with  great  caution 
interfere  in  this  action  and  interaction  of  the  mind 
and  the  soul  in  creation  and  in  work. 

My  Soul 

All  I  can  say  about  my  soul  is,  that  I  know  very 
well  there  is  something  within  me  which  is  more  than 
the  life  of  the  body  and  the  mind,  and  which  will 
not  die  with  the  dissolution  of  the  body.  It  is  not  to 
be  expressed  in  words,  but  no  words  are  to  be  ex- 
pressed without  it.  It  is  that  which  recognizes  Beauty 
and  which  knows  Love.  It  is  that  which  my  work 
must  ever  seek  and  strive  to  communicate.  The  law 
of  the  soul  is  love.  If  I  may  write  true  and  beautiful 
words  men  will  gain  glimpses  of  the  crystal  house  of 


A  Testament  of  Egotism  221 

the  spirit — vistas  will  open  into  man's  real  life,  which 
transcends  this  material  life. 


Conclusion 

I  hereby  promise  myself  that  I  shall  try  to  read 
this  book  of  Canons  daily  and  follow  its  rule  as  best 
I  may.  I  must  add,  that  many  failures  do  not  debar 
efforts  to  try  again.  To  write  one,  little,  true  and 
beautiful  thing  would  be  worth  the  longest  life-time 
of  poverty,  and  sickness  and  sorrow.  One  thing  I 
must  avoid;  self-pity:  for  it  is  the  morphine  of  the 
soul,  which  I  must  put  to  one  side  for  ever. 

That  bad  habit,  anyhow,  I  shall  cut  out. 

I  am,  just  now,  at  the  bottom  of  a  high  and  very 
steep  hill — but  I  shall  climb  to  its  top. 

Looking  upward,  from  this  valley  of  failure,  I  see 
gleams  of  a  sunshine  warmer  and  purer  and  brighter 
than  any  that  appear  in  my  valley.  They  glint  above 
the  edge  of  the  summit,  up  yonder;  and  now  and  then 
there  drift  downward  breaths  of  an  air  that  is  sweeter 
and  cleaner  and  clearer  than  any  I  have  ever  tasted, 
faintly  perfumed  with  scents  of  unknown  flowers. 
Surely,  over  the  top  of  this  hill,  there  is  an  upland 
country  where  those  things  happen  that  you  would 
have  befall;  where  live  those  whom  you  would  love 
to  know — yes,  and  know  to  love — a  region  where  great 
adventures  are  to  be  had,  where  romance  walks  hand 
in  hand  with  truth,  and  beauty  rules  all  from  a  throne 
made  visible  at  last!  A  country  where  the  folk  do  not 
toil  and  moil  and  sweat  and  cheat  and  lie  and  steal 
and  harm  each  other;  a  land  that  is  over  this  hill  and 
far  away,  the  country  of  tomorrow,  the  realm  of  the 


222  The  High  Romance 

future,  the  kingdom  of  heaven  when  it  comes  upon 
earth,  and  of  good  will  done  by  men! 

To  that  hill,  I  address  myself.  I  must  win  to  its 
height,  even  if  there  are  many  lions  in  the  way,  and 
though  there  are  no  paths  up  the  dangerous  steeps 
save  those  each  lonely  climber  makes,  each  for  him- 
self. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   QUEST   OF   TRUTH 

1.  Gleams 

AND  my  hut  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Carmel,  sur- 
rounded by  the  peace  of  the  pines,  with  the  muted 
thundering  of  the  incessant  surf  along  the  marge  of 
the  Pacific  ever  in  the  air,  was  not  only  a  place  where 
my  mind  busied  itself  to  find  the  truth  concerning  this 
mysterious  questing  of  my  soul,  it  also  proved  to  be 
a  sort  of  postern  door,  opening  upon  secret  places  of 
the  inner  life.  Gleams  of  truth  came,  very  faintly  at 
first,  and  confused,  yet  with  increasing  breadth  and 
force  of  illumination.  I  did  at  last  begin  to  see  some 
part  of  the  truth  concerning  myself,  and  my  quest,  and 
my  Book. 

Indeed,  I  made  great  discoveries  concerning  Truth 
itself,  and  the  power  possessed  by  those  who  speak  or 
write  Truth. 

I  mean,  that  these  were  discoveries,  for  me.  For 
others,  they  were  obvious  facts.  Which  situation 
gives  a  writer  as  he  grows  older  some  highly  ironic 
moments,  when  he  looks  backward  along  the  vistas 
of  time  and  beholds  himself  frantically  singing  or 
fighting  because  of  some  wonderful  thing  which  is 
wonderful  to  none  save  himself,  and  the  others  who 
happen  to  be  living  outside  the  circle  wherein  this 
thing  has  always  been  visible  and  known! 

223 


224  The  High  Romance 

Nevertheless,  these  discoveries  of  truth  were  still 
most  valuable,  even  when  I  could  see  that  it  was  only 
because  I  had  been  blind  that  I  had  not  made  them 
before. 

For  I  saw  that  words  of  truth  spoken  by  anybody, 
no  matter  who,  gentle  or  simple,  cultured  or  ignorant, 
artist  or  dullard,  were  mighty  and  went  on  living  with 
mighty  force,  even  when  disregarded  at  the  time  they 
were  uttered. 

A  commonplace?  Yes;  but  some  of  the  most  won- 
derful discoveries  in  the  universe,  some  of  the  most 
marvellous  adventures  to  be  chanced  upon  in  the  high 
romance  of  the  soul,  come  through  revelations  of  the 
beauty  and  the  force  and  the  tremendous  meanings 
of  disregarded  commonplaces. 

For  instance — 

I  was  walking  with  Walter  Prichard  Eaton  through 
Newspaper  Row  in  Boston,  in  the  days  when  we  were 
twenty-one — Ah,  over  the  hills  of  time,  and  far  away! 
Eaton  was  displeased  with  me.  We  had  both  been 
reporting  some  disgusting  murder  trial  or  other,  and 
in  order  to  make  my  court  room  story  interesting,  I 
had  paraphrased  one  of  Walter  Pater's  most  delicately 
eloquent  passages,  and  applied  it  to  one  of  the  women 
witnesses;  and  Eaton,  concerned  in  those  days,  as  in 
later  and  more  authoritative  years,  with  the  dignity 
of  letters,  and  the  responsibility  of  the  writer  to  main- 
tain the  integrity  of  literature,  was  annoyed.  But, 
even  more,  he  was  justly  sorry  for  something  else  I 
was  doing  that  was  wrong.  Without  any  heat,  or  per- 
sonal scorn,  simply  telling  the  truth,  this  good  cham- 
pion of  good  causes,  said  to  me:  "Your  brain  is 
too  fine  to  be  injured,  as  you  are  injuring  it,  with 


The  Quest  of  Truth  225 

alcohol."  That  was  all.  I  made  no  answer.  It 
went  in  one  ear,  and  out  the  other;  but,  in  passing 
through,  with  that  mystical  virtue  possessed  by  the 
word  of  truth,  it  traced  an  indelible  and  potent  mark 
upon  my  soul.  Though  for  nearly  twenty  years  they 
remained  quiescent,  those  words,  they  were  simply 
patient,  not  passive;  and  in  the  hour  of  my  need,  in 
the  time  when  I  was  making  my  fight,  they  came  to  me 
with  helpfulness  and  with  inspiration.  They  bore  a 
message  of  faith.  They  worked  the  good  will  of  their 
speaker,  in  the  measure  of  his  intention.  And  thus 
it  was  made  plain  to  me  that  deeds  of  intellectual 
charity,  the  acts  of  kindness  and  of  consolation  which 
we  may  accomplish  in  spoken  or  written  speech,  are 
to  the  full  as  real  and  tangible  as  the  giving  of  bread 
and  wine,  or  money.  Wherefore,  the  good  Samar- 
itans of  art  and  literature  walk  down  the  roads  of  time 
as  long  as  time  shall  last,  helping  the  wounded  and 
the  fallen. 

Again: — 

I  chanced  to  go  to  a  little  California  village,  on 
some  journalistic  adventure,  and  stayed  there  several 
days,  and  made  a  most  congenial  acquaintance  with 
a  Catholic  priest.  Unable  in  any  degree  to  share  his 
faith,  quite  outside  the  circle  of  his  sacramental  life, 
I  was  still  able  to  appreciate  his  personal  charm. 
Also  there  was  a  bond  uniting  us.  It  was  obvious 
that  he  too  had  fought  with  tuberculosis.  And  though 
he  was  a  very  modest  man,  I  obtained  his  story. 

For  many,  many  weary  years  he  had  dragged  his 
wasted  form  and  failing  body  from  sanitarium  to  san- 
itarium, in  Colorado,  Arizona,  California.  And  the 
fight  went  against  him.     Finally  he  could  no  longer 


226  The  High  Romance 

leave  his  bed;  in  fact,  he  could  hardly  lift  a  finger. 
Then  to  him,  stretched  upon  the  bed  of  death,  there 
came  a  Thought,  on  the  trail  of  which  he  kept 
his  mind  during  a  long,  long  time.  This  Thought, 
was  an  idea  of  how  he  might  invent  a  new  form  of 
sputum  cup,  one  which  might  enable  conscientious  in- 
valids to  be  careful  in  regard  to  spreading  the  con- 
tagion, yet  which  would  be  less  of  a  drain  upon  their 
purses  than  existing  contrivances.  For  years  he 
had  thought  about  such  a  thing,  hoping  that  out 
of  his  own  trouble  he  might  make  something  that 
would  help  other  people.  And  now  the  Idea  arrived. 
He  sent  out  for  card-board.  With  his  feeble  fingers 
he  bent  and  moulded  the  paper  into  this  shape,  and 
that  shape;  scores,  even  hundreds  of  shapes;  until  at 
last  he  evolved  the  shape  that  embodied  his  Thought. 
(Ah,  that's  a  great  moment,  in  art,  in  science,  in 
labour— the  union  of  the  thought  and  the  mechanism 
for  the  thought!)  But  by  this  time  he  was  up  out  of 
bed,  and  on  his  feet.  He  had  switched  his  mind 
from  his  disease  to  his  invention.  And  he  sent  out 
for  copper;  by  and  by  he  set  up  a  little  forge  in 
his  room;  and  with  his  own  hands  made  his  own 
model.  Then  there  came  a  Congress  of  the  Amer- 
ican Medical  Association,  to  Los  Angeles.  He  went 
there;  he  showed  his  model  to  many  of  the  most  fa- 
mous specialists ;  they  commended  it  highly. 

He  had  it  with  him,  this  model  when  I  visited  him; 
some  day  he  meant  to  go  to  New  York,  or  place  it 
with  somebody  in  New  York,  to  present  to  the  one 
firm  of  manufacturers  who  handled  such  devices.  I 
was  on  my  way  to  New  York — bound  on  one  of  my 
literary  adventures;  so  I  offered  to  act  as  his  agent. 


The  Quest  of  Truth  227 

Which  I  did,  with  this  sad  result — that  the  manufac- 
turers declared  his  invention  was  indeed  a  great  im- 
provement, but  that  they  did  not  care  to  put  it  on  the 
market. 

I  do  not  know  when  I  have  written  a  letter  that 
gave  me  such  difficulty  to  write,  and  such  pain,  as  the 
letter  in  which  I  had  to  tell  my  friend  of  this  failure 
of  the  object  which  I  supposed  had  been  the  central 
part  of  his  life  for  so  long. 

But  there  was  a  centre  in  that  man's  life  deeper  and 
higher  than  any  I  knew  about.  Never  shall  I  forget 
the  wonderful  letter  which  he  sent  to  me,  condoling 
me  for  my  disappointment;  saying,  most  simply,  that 
as  God  had  given  him  back  his  health  through  his 
work,  he  had  from  the  very  start  resolved  that  success 
or  failure,  in  a  material  way,  with  his  device,  should 
not  be  allowed  to  perturb  his  spirit. 

Here  was  another  great  discovery,  over  which  I 
brooded  in  my  hut  among  the  pines,  namely,  that  he 
who  forgot  himself  found  himself;  he  who  put  others 
before  himself,  found  what  was  greater  than  what  is 
usually  termed  success:  he  found  peace,  happiness, 
life. 


— But  this  vision  was  blurred,  even  as  the  sun- 
lighted  vistas  of  my  Carmel  woods  and  hills  would 
often  be  blurred  by  the  invading  fogs.  I  admired, 
I  wondered ;  but  .  .  .  but  what  about  my  upright  and 
invincible  ego?  What  about  the  creative  power  of 
my  own  will? 

I  evaded  the  issue;  I  shunned  these  obtrusive  and 
disconcerting  thoughts. 


228  The  High  Romance 

2.  The  Book  Of  The  Quest 

Also,  there  was  my  Book;  this  Book  which  was 
the  chronicle  of  my  life.  The  time  had  come  when 
I  must  revalue  my  own  values  concerning  this  central 
point  of  my  artistic  and  spiritual  life.  The  time  had 
come  to  search  out  the  truth  about  my  work  as  well  as 
about  myself. 

There  was,  for  example,  the  verdict  passed  upon 
the  manuscript  by  one  of  the  chief  readers  for  an 
important  firm  of  publishers  whom  Witter  Bynner 
had  fairly  pestered  to  publish  the  thing.  He  did  not 
succeed,  and  he  sent  me  the  report  which  caused 
the  publishers  to  reject  the  manuscript.  It  came  to 
me  while  I  was  working  in  my  Carmel  hut,  and  I  read 
it  with  blank  amazement  that  anybody  could  so  regard 
my  work. 

Its  essential  portion  ran  as  follows: — 

"In  character,  though  not  in  quality,  the  MS  be- 
longs with  Rousseau's  Confessions,  Marie  Bashkirt- 
seff's  Journal,  any  one  of  those  self  revelations  that 
the  Celtic  and  Latin  races  excel  in,  but  the  package  of 
sheets  contains  much  else.  Part  of  it  is  in  the  form 
of  letters,  the  interludes  interrupt  the  main  narrative 
to  present  nature  pictures,  sketches  of  chance  com- 
panions, a  medley  of  aspirations,  reflections,  expe- 
riences, friendships,  reveries,  rhapsodies,  prose 
poems,  and  physical  detail,  fact  and  fancy — resem- 
bling a  flood  of  rather  muddy  water,  sometimes  bear- 
ing precious  things  upon  its  bosom,  sometimes,  flot- 
sam and  jetsam,  sometimes,  the  objects  of  daily  life. 

"Technically  speaking,  the  MS  has  nearly  every 


The  Quest  of  Truth  229 

possible  fault, — extreme  verbosity,  no  order,  wild 
confusion,  no  sense  of  proportion,  errors  in  taste, 
trash  and  gems  of  thought  and  expression  mixed  to- 
gether with  no  appreciation  of  values,  different  sorts 
of  literary  forms,  no  unity,  no  harmony,  wild  outpour- 
ings, imaginative  flights,  autobiographical  detail, — a 
heterogeneous  compound  of  dissimilar  elements — as 
the  old  phrase  goes. 

"Yet  the  merits  embedded  in  this  mass  are  undeni- 
able, evident,  and  could  some  one,  other  than  the  au- 
thor, attempt  the  task  of  selection,  of  revision,  of 
pruning,  the  MS  might  be  made  over  into  a  contribu- 
tion of  some  value  to  the  literature  of  psychology,  of 
self  revelation,  of  human  documents.  The  author, 
himself,  is  entitled  to  be  heard  and  he  describes  his 
purpose  as  that  of  trying  to  write  'as  truthful  a  state- 
ment of  myself  in  relation  to  life,  and  of  life  in  rela- 
tion to  myself  as  I  can  compass,'  'a  book  of  the  open 
air,'  'a  chant  of  the  morning  sun,'  'to  give  enough 
facts  of  his  life  to  serve  as  foundation  stones,'  'My 
wish  is  to  trace  in  firm  lines  the  course  of  my  physical 
career,  sounding  therein  the  motive  phrases  of  my 
spiritual  career.  Art,  Death,  Intoxications,  Women, 
the  Infinite,  taking  them  up  one  by  one,  like  parts  of 
a  symphony,  developing  them  fully,  pursuing  them  to 
the  limits  of  their  flight  in  any  direction,  solos  for  the 
various  voices  of  my  many  selves,  with  variations  on 
certain  themes  for  some  of  the  instruments  in  my 
orchestra;  blending,  fusing,  harmonizing,  all  voices, 
all  instruments,  all  parts;  the  word-music  of  my  Ego 
in  its  relations  to  life.'  This  last  quotation  may  serve 
a  two-fold  purpose,  show  the  aim  of  the  MS,  and  the 


230  The  High  Romance 

author's  fanciful,  redundant  style.  Again  he  says 
that  this  MS  is  simply  a  big  magazine,  himself  the 
sole  editor,  and  well  nigh  its  sole  contributor. 

"The  author  complains  not  once  but  many  times, 
and  bitterly,  of  rejected  contributions,  of  editors  who 
acknowledge  that  his  work  has  power,  originality, 
literary  merit,  but  allege  that  it  is  morbid,  unhappy, 
unpleasant.  Judging  from  this  present  MS,  the  fault 
may  be  also  placed  upon  lack  of  mental  training,  of 
mental  control,  of  order,  of  unity.  There  is  beauty, 
as  for  example,  in  that  cry  of  the  artist  in  the  throes 
of  creation,  or  in  many  of  the  thumb-nail  nature 
pictures,  or  in  scattered  phrases  and  expressions,  in 
poetical  feeling,  and  yet — the  moods  often  are  akin 
to  the  sensations  experienced  through  opium  or 
alcohol. 

"On  the  side  of  actual  facts,  the  MS  is  a  narra- 
tive of  a  fatherless  boyhood,  of  uncongenial  work 
from  the  age  of  twelve,  of  literary  tastes  and  long- 
ings, of  the  horrors  of  existence  in  the  basement  of  a 
Boston  five  cent  store,  of  the  inspiration  of  Philip 
Hale's  articles,  of  cutting  loose  from  business,  and 
relying  on  his  pen,  of  repeated  hemorrhages,  journeys 
for  health,  in  Texas,  California,  Bermuda,  etc.;  of 
the  destruction  of  all  his  MSS  in  the  fires  of  the 
San  Francisco  earthquake  and  at  Helicon  Hall,  of  the 
unrelenting  pressure  of  impecuniosity,  of  the  make- 
shifts of  the  machine  fiction  produced  as  pot  boilers, 
of  the  indestructible  yearning  to  write  after  his  own 
way,  of  the  final  settlement  in  California,  and  of  the 
farewell  that  sounds  as  if  the  shadow  of  the  Face- 
less Stranger,  Death,  that  has  haunted  the  writer  all 
his  life,  were  near  at  hand.     It  is  a  pitiful,  squalid 


The  Quest  of  Truth  231 

record  on  the  material  side,  a  losing  fight  with  dis- 
ease, poverty,  untoward  circumstances,  dissipation, — 
and  yet  there  blooms  the  flower  of  the  ideal,  of  hope, 
of  work,  to  redeem,  to  uplift,  to  ennoble,  to  make 
worth  while,  this  story  of  a  life. 

"Valuable  portions,  fine  descriptions,  poetical 
sketches,  beautiful  phrases,  much  prose  poetry,  could 
be  disentangled  from  the  mass  in  which  they  are 
embedded,  and  a  story  of  great  human  interest,  of 
literary  quality,  of  psychological  importance  pro- 
duced, but  the  work  would  amount  to  a  thorough  re- 
writing of  the  MS.  It  would  be  a  task  to  which  few 
editors  would  wish  to  apply  themselves.  The  appeal 
to  the  sympathy  is  so  great,  the  beauty  of  much  of 
the  MS  is  so  plain,  that  it  is  with  real  regret  that  the 
reader  condemns  the  MS,  and  with  a  real  hope  that 
some  way  may  be  found  to  utilize  the  MS.  In  its 
present  shape,  it  seems  impossible." 

This  criticism — which  today  I  can  see  to  have  been 
most  fair,  most  thorough,  erring  where  it  did  err  only 
on  the  side  of  kindness  and  of  eagerness  to  recognize 
what  was  worth  while  in  the  amazing  manuscript 
through  which  that  poor  lady  (whose  name  I  do  not 
know)  was  obliged  to  wade — this  criticism,  I  say, 
appeared  to  me  simply  as  one  more  of  the  obtuse  re- 
fusals of  the  conventional  publisher,  and  I  threw  it 
aside  disdainfully. 

The  fact  is,  I  was  not  arrived  at  the  point  where 
I  could  see  the  truth  regarding  my  work,  and  I  re- 
jected even  such  helpful  criticisms  as  the  one  quoted 
above  with  the  same  impatience  with  which  I  bolted 
from  publishers  and  editors  who  did,  in  fact,  attempt 
to    influence   me   toward   commercial   compromises. 


232  The  High  Romance 

Many  indeed  were  these  efforts  of  men  who  quite 
frankly  regarded  writing  as  a  part  of  the  almost  uni- 
versal proj&t-making  system  of  the  age,  to  have  me 
take  what  they  regarded  as  a  sensible  attitude. 

I  was  at  this  time  writing  occasional  contributions 
for  a  London  weekly  journal,  The  New  Age,  which 
that  brilliant  champion  of  the  rights  of  the  poor,  that 
leader  of  the  Guild  revival  in  England,  A.  R.  Orage, 
was  editor — an  editor  who  possessed  much  of  the  in- 
tuitive genius  of  W.  E.  Henley  in  divining  and  en- 
couraging literary  talent.  Hilaire  Belloc,  H.  G. 
Wells,  Bernard  Shaw,  Gilbert  and  Cecil  Chesterton; 
that  great  exponent  of  beautiful  style,  Francis  Grier- 
son  (one  of  the  true  masters  of  modem  literature), 
and  other  makers  and  shakers  of  world-thought  were 
among  Orage's  band  of  writers.  So  too  was  Arnold 
Bennett,  writing  under  the  name  of  Jacob  Tonson. 
His  weekly  column  was  stimulating  to  a  degree,  and 
I  wrote  to  him,  and  we  exchanged  several  communi- 
cations. I  had  recently  tried  a  novel,  which  was 
largely  autobiographical  in  its  matter;  another  ver- 
sion, in  fact,  of  the  theme  I  was  struggling  with  in 
my  book  of  books;  and  I  had  received  a  letter  from 
a  New  York  publisher  which  was  so  frank  an  example 
of  the  commercial  attitude  toward  literature  that  I 
sent  it  to  Bennett,  knowing  he  would  make  some 
characteristic  use  of  it  in  his  inimitable  column.  He 
did  so,  and  I  take  the  following  passage  from  his 
department  in  the  New  Age: 

"Authentic  documents  are  always  precious  to  the 
student,  and  here  is  one  which  strikes  me  as  precious 
beyond  ordinary.     It  is  a  letter  received  from  a  well 


The  Quest  of  Truth  233 

known  publisher  by  a  correspondent  of  mine  who  is 
a  journalist: 

"  'I  am  awfully  sorry  that  we  cannot  take  your 
novel,  which  is  immensely  clever  and  which  interested 
my  partner  more  than  anything  he  has  read  in  a  good 
while.  He  agrees  with  me,  however,  that  it  has  not 
got  the  qualities  that  make  for  a  sale,  and  you  know 
that  this  is  the  great  desideratum  with  the  publisher. 
Now,  don't  get  peevish  and  send  us  nothing  else. 
I  know  you  have  a  lot  of  talent,  and  your  difficulty  is 
in  applying  this  talent  to  really  practical  problems 
rather  than  to  the  more  attractive  products  of  the 
imagination.  Get  down  to  facts,  my  son,  and  study 
your  market.  Find  out  what  the  people  like  to  read 
and  then  write  a  story  along  those  lines.  This  will 
bring  you  success,  for  you  have  a  talent  for 
success.  Above  all  things,  don't  follow  the  lead 
of  our  headstrong  friend  who  insists  upon  do- 
ing exactly  what  you  have  done  in  this  novel — 
namely,  neglecting  the  practical  market  and  working 
out  the  fanciful  dictates  of  imagination.  Remember 
that  novel  writing  is  as  much  of  a  business  as  making 
calico.  If  you  write  the  novels  that  people  want  you 
are  going  to  sell  them  in  bales.  When  you  have  made 
your  name  and  your  market,  then  you  can  afford 
to  let  your  imagination  run  riot,  and  then  people  will 
look  at  you  admiringly  and  say:  'I  don't  understand 
this  genius  at  all,  but  isn't  he  great?'  Do  you  see 
the  point?  You  must  do  this  AFTER  you  have  won 
your  market,  in  the  first  place,  by  writing  what  folks 
want  to  buy.     Sincerely  yours .' 

"The  writer  is  American.  But  the  attitude  of  the 
average  English  publisher  could  not  have  been  more 


234  The  High  Romance 

accurately  expressed  than  in  this  letter  sent  by  one 
New  Yorker  to  another.  The  only  thing  that  puzzles 
me  is  why  the  man  originally  chose  books  instead  of 
calico.  He  would  have  understood  calico  better. 
In  my  opinion,  many  publishers  would  have  under- 
stood calico  better  than  books.  There  are  two  things 
which  a  publisher  ought  to  know  about  novel  produc- 
ers—things which  do  not,  curiously  enough,  apply  to 
calico  producers  and  which  few  publishers  have  ever 
grasped.  I  have  known  publishers  to  go  into  the 
bankruptcy  court  and  come  out  again  safely  and  yet 
never  grasp  the  significance  of  those  two  things.  The 
first  is  that  it  is  intensely  stupid  to  ask  a  novelist  to 
study  the  market  with  a  view  to  obtaining  large  circu- 
lations. If  he  does  not  write  to  please  himself — if 
his  own  taste  does  not  naturally  coincide  with  the 
taste  of  the  million — he  will  never  reach  the  million 
by  taking  thought.  The  Hall  Gaines,  the  Miss 
Corellis  and  the  Mrs.  Humphrey  Wards  are  bom,  not 
made.  It  may  seem  odd,  even  to  a  publisher,  that 
they  write  as  they  do  write — by  sheer  glad  instinct. 
But  it  is  so.  The  second  thing  is  that  when  a  novelist 
has  made  'his  name  and  his  market'  by  doing  one 
kind  of  thing  he  can't  successfully  go  off  at  a  tangent 
and  do  another  kind  of  thing.  To  make  the  largest 
possible  amount  of  money  out  of  an  artist  the  only 
way  is  to  leave  him  alone.  When  will  publishers 
grasp  this?  To  make  the  largest  possible  amount  of 
money  out  of  an  imitative  hack,  the  only  way  is  to 
leave  him  alone.  When  will  publishers  grasp  that  an 
imitative  hack  knows  by  the  grace  of  God  forty  times 
more  about  the  public  taste  than  a  publishers  knows?" 


The  Quest  of  Truth  235 

Yet,  I  could  at  last  begin  to  see  that  although  I  was 
right  in  not  complaisantly  adopting  the  commercial 
point  of  view,  I  was  not  right  in  my  reckless  insistence 
upon  an  absolutely  egotistical  attitude.  More  dis- 
concerting still,  was  the  gathering  suspicion,  and 
more  than  suspicion,  the  growing  certainty,  that  my 
work  itself  was  not  all  that  I  cracked  it  up  to  myself 
as  being. 

William  Aspenwall  Bradley,  who,  like  Bynner,  in 
the  friendly  spirit  of  one  writer  trying  to  help  another, 
had  read  my  book  in  the  interest  of  a  publisher,  gave 
me  a  leg  up  over  this  wall  of  blind  egotism. 

"The  conviction  has  grown  upon  me,"  he  wrote, 
"that  your  book  contains  some  of  the  best  writing 
you  have  yet  done.  But  for  that  very  reason  it  seems 
to  me  that  to  centre  so  much  that  is  beautiful  around 
an  appeal  for  the  particular  form  of  social  philosophy 
which  you  have  adopted,  while  it  may  have  personal 
justification,  is  bad  art.  Now,  I  am  not  descrying 
this  or  other  forms  of  social  experimentation,  as  you 
know;  nor  am  I  quarrelling  with  the  way  in  which 
you  have  written  the  book,  for  I  am  aware  that  it  has 
a  very  deep  p^sonal  meaning  for  you.  I  am  simply 
forced  to  consider  the  matter  as  an  outsider,  and  try 
to  ascertain  through  my  own  feeling,  just  how  the 
matter  would  present  itself  to  the  public.  I  can  see 
how,  if  you  gave  a  more  profound  philosophical  basis 
for  the  change  that  occurred  in  you,  making  your 
adhesion  to  your  special  theory  merely  incidental, 
the  book  would  be  greatly  improved,  without  losing 
any  of  the  force  you  wish  to  give  it.  Indeed,  I  re- 
member you  making  a  particular  point  of  the  fact 
that  there  was  something  deeper  than  this  theory  of 


236  The  High  Romance 

yours  about  the  power  of  optimistic  new  thought  in 
your  experiences — that  you  have  already  tried  to 
apply  its  influence  to  your  life  without  success — and 
that  it  was  only  because  you  had  approached  it  in  a 
new  light  that  you  finally  found  it  helpful." 

3.  Seven  Years  Later 

Never  was  there  more  discerning  criticism  and  ad- 
vice given  to  a  young  and  unformed  writer;  yet  he 
was  totally  unable  to  avail  himself  of  the  words  of 
truth,  for  he  could  not  see  the  truth,  therefore,  it 
could  not  set  him  free  from  the  talons  of  his  chimera 
— of  indeed,  a  flock  of  chimeras,  which  bore  him 
away  upon  wild  and  whirling  and  vertiginous  courses, 
dashing  to  and  fro  among  all  the  isms  and  illusions, 
all  the  fads  and  follies  of  the  fantastic  age,  now  draw- 
ing nigher  and  nigher  to  the  abyss  of  the  Catastrophe 
the  ominous  shadow  of  which  was  even  then,  though 
we  knew  it  not,  darkling  upon  the  world. 

But  though  I  disregarded  good  advice,  and  ignored 
the  truthful  criticism  of  my  book,  as  well  as  the 
merely  commercial  advice,  I  knew  that  for  the  time, 
at  least,  the  game  was  up;  the  book  was  no  go;  and 
I  put  it  away,  and  did  not  look  at  it  again  for  seven 
years. 

Seven  years,  you  know,  is  a  mystic  period! 

For  now,  my  dear  Bradley,  seven  years  after  I 
threw  down  my  book,  and  nearly  ten  after  you  sent 
me  your  kindly  letter,  I  not  only  confess  that  you 
were  quite  right,  and  that  you  told  me  the  truth — 
which  I  could  not  recognize  (the  seed  falling  upon 


The  Quest  of  Truth  237 

stony  ground  indeed) — ^but,  what  is  more  to  the  pur- 
pose, so  does  my  book  confess  it.  That  really  fun- 
damental basis  for  my  book,  the  lack  of  which  you 
discerned,  and  which  I  could  not  supply,  for  I  did  not 
know  what  it  could  be,  is  now  at  last  mine  to  build 
upon.  At  the  time  you  read  my  screamingly  egotis- 
tical olla  podrida  of  autobiography,  auto-psychology, 
literary  essay,  book  of  adventure,  book  of  kicking 
against  the  pricks,  I  was,  as  you  were  just  enough  to 
recognize,  trying  in  my  nakedly  personal  fashion  to 
contribute  something  to  the  great  task  of  social  re- 
construction which  is  so  absolutely  necessary.  But 
what  I  could  contribute  of  any  real  value,  was  not 
so  apparent.  I  waved  so  many  banners,  I  shouted 
so  confused  a  medley  of  war  cries — Socialism, 
Vegetarianism,  Anarchism,  Fletcherism,  New 
Thought,  Psychic  Research,  Mysticism! — that  no 
wonder  you  couldn't  make  head  or  tail  of  it  all; 
any  more  than  the  poor  world  could  make  head  or 
tail  of  the  babble  of  contentious  systems  and  formulas 
of  the  rest  of  the  literary  world-makers  and  world- 
shakers  so  busy  among  us — the  Tolstois,  the  Nietz- 
sches,  the  Shaws,  the  Ibsens,  the  Metchnikoffs,  the 
Kropotkins,  the  Strindbergs,  the  Gorkis,  the  Maeter- 
lincks,  the  Gorkis,  down  to  the  Bertie  Russells,  and 
the  Norman  Angells,  and  the  Walter  Lippmanns,  etc., 
etc. — the  would-be  social  saviours,  the  Prophets,  the 
Voices,  the  Visionaries. 

And  my  book  was  the  mirror  of  this  confusion  and 
fantasy  of  mind  and  of  life. 

There  was  only  one  thing  which  justified  its  baffled 
efforts — namely,  the  fact  that  it  was  after  all  bound 
upon  an  adventure  in  search  of  truth. 


238  The  High  Romance 

So,  too,  the  same  thing  is  true  of  those  greater  and 
more  adequately  equipped  minds  and  souls,  whose 
personal  testaments  so  bizarrely  bear  witness  to  the 
frightful  confusion  of  our  world  as  the  Catastrophe 
approached;  they  too  were  seeking  the  Light. 

But  I  was  blind,  utterly  blind,  during  all  those 
years  of  reckless  roving  as  1  adventured  in  my  search 
after  the  high  romance  among  books  and  among  men, 
among  ideas,  and  personalities,  here,  there  and  every- 
where in  our  country,  from  Canada  to  Mexico,  from 
Boston  to  San  Francisco,  from  Whitman  to  Neitzsche, 
from  Yeats  and  Wells  to  William  James,  from  Fred- 
erick Myers  and  his  ghosts  to  Wincenty  Lutoslawski, 
and  his  Christian  Yoga! 

Yes,  I  was  blind,  utterly  blind,  to  the  fact  that  all 
Seekers,  the  great  as  well  as  the  little,  the  proud  and 
the  humble,  seek  but  one  thing,  and  sooner  or  later 
must  make  a  choice.  .  .  . 

The  thing  that  we  seek  is  God. 

The  choice  we  must  make  is.  Shall  I  follow  Him? 

— In  my  little  hut  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Carmel, 
as  in  my  hut  on  the  Massachusetts  island,  and  as 
everywhere  else,  I  was  struggling  with  a  myriad  of 
questions,  which  at  root  resolved  themselves  into  one 
or  two,  namely: 

Is  there  a  God? 

If  there  is,  what  are  my  relations  to  Him? 

Around  these  fundamental  questions,  all  others 
gather.  I  can  see  now  that  from  the  beginning,  I 
was  committed  to  this  deepest  of  all  concerns,  but 


The  Quest  of  Truth  239 

I  did  not  realize  that  fact — my  eyes  were  holden  so 
I  could  not  see;  my  soul  was  urging  me  onward,  but 
my  mind  was  not  in  communion  with  my  soul,  save 
brokenly  and  confusedly;  wherefore,  like  millions  of 
others,  before  my  time,  and  in  my  time,  and  never 
more  than  in  these  days  of  War,  I  followed  wander- 
ing, betraying  lights,  and  fascinating  shadows, 
through  highways  and  byways,  and  over  the  hills  of 
life  and  time,  far,  far  away.  I  roamed  toward  vague 
vistas  of  adventure,  ever  opening  in  new  directions. 
There  was  no  fixed  star  known  to  me  by  which  I 
might  safely  guide  my  quest. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  after  all,  a  Quest;  it  was  the 
Great  Quest.  It  was  the  supreme  adventure.  It  was 
the  real,  the  only  worth-while  romance  and  high 
adventure  of  the  soul.  And  the  time  for  its  crisis 
was  now  at  hand. 


M 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    NEW   PAGANISM 

1.  The  Artist  as  Hierophant 

ANY  things,  however,  were  to  happen  upon  my 
adventurous  road,  before  the  great  thing  of  all 
came  to  pass.  .  .  . 

And  as  I  look  back  upon  that  time  of  confusion, 
and  clearly  see  that  what  I  had  to  give  the  world 
was  of  no  particular  value,  nevertheless  it  would  be 
an  affectation  if  I  did  not  also  recognize  that  in  my 
persistent  attempts  to  achieve  literary  self-expression 
I  was,  in  my  humble  fashion,  in  rapport  with  the 
spirit  of  my  age.  I  unconsciously  sought  to  become 
one  of  its  mediums  of  expression,  one  of  the  channels 
for  its  communications;  a  Voice  of  its  desire;  and  a 
part,  therefore,  of  the  most  powerful  and  predominat- 
ing movement  in  modem  art. 

For,  without  raising  the  question  of  the  relative 
merits  or  demerits  of  modern  art  (especially  literary 
art)  as  compared  with  that  of  past  days,  surely  no- 
body will  dispute  the  statement  that  never  in  the 
history  of  the  world  have  writers,  purely  as  writers 
— quite  apart  from  their  positions  as  proponents  or 
expounders  of  religious  creeds,  or  scientific  knowl- 
edge, or  systems  of  government — ever  claimed  or 
attained  such  influence  and  power  as  they  exercise 
today. 

Artists  have  assumed,  and  been  freely  accorded  by 

240 


The  New  Paganism  241 

public  opinion,  positions  of  almost  dogmatical,  pon- 
tifical authority  in  human  society.  They  claim  and 
are  granted  a  right  hardly  short  of  divine  to  criticize 
all  values,  all  institutions  and  all  laws,  and  to  over- 
throw those  they  condemn,  and  set  up  new  ones  of 
their  own  creation. 

At  the  centre,  as  the  animating  principle,  of  all 
social  and  religious  movements  and  revolutions — ^both 
those  which  renovate  and  reform  and  those  which 
wreck  and  destroy — you  will  find  the  writer.  That 
large  and  constantly  growing  portion  of  humanity 
which,  as  W.  B.  Yeats  puts  the  case,  "makes  its  soul" 
out  of  books,  and  music,  and  painting,  and  dancing, 
and  drama,  instead  of  the  religions  which  it  has  cast 
into  the  dust-bin  of  Time,  fully  accepts  free  and  in- 
dividualistic Art  as  the  revelation  of  the  innermost 
truth  and  power  of  Life. 

A  new  dynamic  religion  is  thus  being  created:  a 
religion  of  the  mystical  recognition  of  the  power, 
beauty,  and  right-to-be-free,  of  human  life.  It  claims 
for  the  artist  full  liberty  to  utter,  in  any  form,  what- 
ever he  and  none  other  deems  best  to  say.  The  creeds 
and  regulations  and  organizations  of  society  must 
follow  and  be  moulded  after  his  visions  and  revisions. 
He  is  at  once  the  prophet  and  the  only  permissible 
priest  of  the  high  service  of  human  progress.  There- 
fore it  greatly  behooves  all  who  are  concerned  in 
any  way  with  bettering  the  race-soul  (upon  the  better- 
ment of  which  depends  the  improvement  of  all  the 
institutions  of  government,  law,  and  social  service) 
to  be  keenly  attentive  to  the  voices  of  all  authentic 
artists. 


242  The  High  Romance 

This,  I  am  confident  is  not  an  over-statement  of 
the  belief  in  advanced  and  radical  intellectual  circles 
today. 

2.  The  Chief  Issue 

It  is,  of  course,  obvious  that  humanity  is  stand- 
ing at  the  gateway  of  some  tremendous  new  epoch, 
one  in  which  all  the  past  struggles  of  all  those  ideas 
which  debase  or  uplift  mankind  will  be  eclipsed  by 
the  gigantic  scope  and  relentless  nature  of  the  coming 
conflict  of  opposing  wills  and  antagonistic  spiritual 
forces. 

America  will  unquestionably  be  the  greatest  of  all 
the  psychic  battlefields  of  the  future,  and  the  voices 
of  our  artists  today  are  uttering  the  omens  and  the 
prophecies  of  the  impending  crisis.  They  formulate 
the  watchwords  and  phrase  the  battle  cries.  ...  If 
you  would  know  what  is  to  be  tomorrow,  study  the 
artists  of  today.  .  .  . 

Already,  I  think,  it  is  quite  clear  that  minor  issues 
are  being  brushed  aside,  and  that  the  basic  principle 
of  the  warfare  being  waged  by  most  modern  writers 
who  count  for  anything,  intellectually  and  artistically, 
can  be  plainly  discerned  as  a  demand  for  absolute 
liberty  of  expression,  and  the  overthrow  of  all  at- 
tempts to  maintain  traditional  and  institutional  forms 
of  moral  and  spiritual  Authority. 

Ultimately,  all  forms  of  moral  and  spiritual 
authority  are  based  upon  the  dogma  of  a  personal 
God;  who  has  revealed  His  dictates  to  His  creatures, 
who  are  bound  to  follow  these  or  meet  with  inevitable 
disaster. 

Christianity  is  the  expression,   and  the  Catholic 


The  New  Paganism  243 

Church  is  the  organism,  for  the  working-out  of  this 
idea,  and  all  forms  of  society  which  claim  "legitimate 
authority,"  save  one  (a  new-comer  to  the  hierarchy 
of  modem  ideas),  derive  directly  or  indirectly  their 
spiritual  or  moral  sanction  from  this  source. 

The  one  exception  among  modem  forms  of  social 
organism  claiming  "legitimate  authority"  which  does 
not  derive  sanction  from  Christianity,  is  Socialism, 
which  would  set  up  the  authority  not  of  "God,"  but 
of  the  "State." 

This  idea  of  the  innate  and  sovereign  power  of 
"the  State"  ceases  more  and  more  to  remain  the 
mere  abstraction  it  was  for  long,  and  tends  more  and 
more  to  become  positively  deific  in  the  minds  of  ever 
increasing  multitudes. 

This  deifying  process  is  largely  the  work  of  modem 
artists,  poets  and  prose  prophets  especially,  who  have 
breathed  an  energetic  life  into  what  would  be  only 
a  cold  mental  abstraction  without  the  fire  and  passion 
and  power  they  have  given  to  it. 

Now,  with  this  particular  source  of  authority, 
modem  non-Christian  thought  (with  the  exception  of 
pure  anarchy:  but  that  grows  constantly  less  active) 
has  no  quarrel,  but  rather  a  deep  affinity;  because 
both  at  bottom  are  in  opposition  to  dogmatic  religion, 
to  Christianity. 

Hence,  it  is  day  by  day  becoming  clearer  that  the 
great  task  which  modem  art  has  set  all  its  forces  to 
accomplish,  is  to  get  rid  of  the  power  of  Christianity, 
and  to  permit  all  that  which  Christian  morality  would 
prohibit  or  shackle — all  the  forces  of  free  sensual  life 
— to  seek  and  find  expression  untrammeled  save  by 
considerations  of  expediency,  or  of  a  purely  social. 


244  The  High  Romance 

and  non-Christian,  decorum.  For,  since  Christianity 
claims  the  power  and  the  sanction  of  an  Almighty 
God  to  guide  and  mould  human  life,  and  asserts  that 
disaster  follows  any  least  slackening  of  its  control, 
modem  art  must  of  necessity  wage  war  against 
Christianity — save,  of  course,  when  modem  art  is 
itself  Christian,  explicitly,  or  in  nature,  and  purpose. 

But  modem  American  art  has  shown  little  Christian 
character  or  direction.  France  has  its  Huysman,  its 
Brunetiere,  its  Paul  Claudel,  its  Francis  Jammes,  its 
Maurice  Barres,  its  Paul  Bourget,  and  many  other 
Christian  forces;  England  its  Newman,  its  Francis 
Thompson,  its  Hilaire  Belloc,  its  Benson,  its  Chester- 
tons,  its  Martindale,  its  Alice  Meynell,  its  Shane 
Leslie,  its  Francis  Grierson;  but  only  a  few  and, 
as  yet,  quite  local  and  minor  Christian  artists  are  to- 
day ranged  against  the  powerful  brigade  of  English, 
French,  German,  Jewish,  Russian,  and  native  artists 
who  in  America  wage  war  against  the  Christian  ethic 
— avowedly,  or  implicitly. 

It  is  impossible,  however,  to  doubt  that  a  reaction 
is  near  at  hand,  and  that  soon  the  champions  of 
Christ  in  art  will  step  forth  to  face  Apollo.  .  .  .  For 
the  inevitability  of  reaction,  in  all  movements,  is  a 
phenomenon  that  must  be  granted  by  all  students  and 
champions  of  humanitarianism,  and  as  the  New 
Paganism,  which  is  creating  the  mystical  religion  of 
the  state,  continues  its  career  it  is  bound  to  face  at 
last  the  one  power  which  dares  to  say  to  Man:  "You 
have  a  Master — a  Supematural  Creator  Who  demands 
Obedience,  and  Who  has  given  to  me  His  Authority 
over  you!"  For  such  is  the  voice  of  the  Catholic 
Church;  and,  strange  to  say,  it  has  ever  been  able 


The  New  Paganism  245 

to  gain  poets,  and  other  artists,  to  express  its  ancient 
and  unchanging  mind.  A  few  of  the  keener-minded 
and  far-sighted  leaders  of  modem  humanitarianism 
are  aware  of  this  singular  recrudescence  of  Christian 
supematuralism  in  American  art  and  thought;  and 
are  calling  attention  to  the  fact  that  the  one  thing, 
and  the  only  thing,  which  can  prevent  the  overthrow 
of  all  forms  of  dogmatical,  auflioritative,  moral  con- 
ventions, habits,  customs,  and  beliefs, — ^namely,  the 
influence  of  the  Catholic  Church,  is  now  exerting 
itself  in  a  great  new  movement  of  artistic  and  cultural 
forces.  In  this  age,  the  fourth  centenary  of 
Luther,  it  is  plain  to  demonstration  that  Protestantism 
has  failed.  Only  the  religion  of  Rome  has  retained 
power.  Rome  alone  opposes  the  free  development 
and  ultimate  triumph  of  the  New  Paganism.  Rome 
is  the  true  enemy  of  that  ascendant  force  in  modem 
art  which  would  lead  humanity  away  from  Christian 
ideas  of  good  and  evil  in  search  not  of  a  Heaven  in 
the  sky,  but  of  the  Earthly  Paradise:  Utopia:  in  other 
words,  the  fully  accomplished  Brotherhood  of  Man 
in  the  Socialist  State  of  the  World.  For  nothing 
short  of  that  consummation  of  the  dreams  of  the 
literary  rebels  of  all  the  ages  can  be  accepted  as  the 
ideal  of  the  New  Paganism. 

— No  more  definite  and  noteworthy  utterance  of 
this  ideal  has  been  made  than  the  confession  of 
faith  which  one  of  the  most  influential  and  typical 
artist-prophets  of  the  new  dispensation,  H.  G.  Wells, 
makes  in  the  most  recent  of  his  books,  as  follows : — 

"/  conceive  myself  to  be  thinking  as  the  world 
thinks,  and  if  I  find  no  great  facts,  I  find  a  hundred 
little  indications  to  reassure  me  that  God  comes. 


246  The  High  Romance 

Even  those  who  have  neither  the  imagination  nor  the 
faith  to  apprehend  God  as  a  reality  will,  I  think,  real- 
ize presently  that  the  Kingdom  of  God  over  a  world- 
wide system  «/  republican  States  is  the  only  possible 
formula  under  which  we  may  hope  to  unify  and  save 
mankind," 

He  comes  to  this  conclusion  after  studying  "the 
sub-surface  religious  movement"  which  he  believes  is 
going  on,  a  "movement  entirely  outside  any  existing 
church  or  religious  form,"  a  movement  he  deems  to 
be  a  turning  of  the  minds  and  hearts  of  ordinary  men 
toward  God,  a  yearning  after  righteousness  that  prom- 
ises much  for  the  good  of  the  world.  Mr.  Wells, 
after  many  books,  and  years  of  search  and  experiment 
in  life  and  art  and  thought,  has  come  at  last  to 
Religion:  to  the  Religion  of  the  State. 

In  this,  he  is  a  true  prophet,  a  true  pioneer.  His 
new  religion  is  definitely  here,  and  the  great  task 
which  it  attempts  is  the  final  overthrow  of  Christianity, 
which  it  declares  to  have  failed  in  the  work  which 
it,  the  New  Religion,  will  surely  accomplish,  namely, 
the  "unifying"  and  the  "saving"  of  mankind.  This 
is  the  result,  says  Wells,  and  the  only  possible 
result,  of  the  modem  movement  of  revolt;  of  man- 
kind's great  and  never-ceasing  quest  for  life — for 
more  life;  the  life  more  abundant — for  liberty:  true 
liberty,  unshackled,  unquestioned,  and  permanent — 
and  for  happiness,  real  and  lasting  happiness — after 
which  all  human  hearts  are  ever  searching. 

And  this  is  the  great  quest  in  which  nearly  all 
modem  writers  unite,  however  else  they  may  disagree. 
Of  course,  I  refer  now  to  "serious"  writers,  writers 
conscious  of  responsibility  and  of  definite  social  pur- 


The  New  Paganism  247 

pose.  Thousands  of  writers  work  merely  to  supply 
the  huge  modem  demand  for  entertainment,  and  for 
something  to  "pass  away  the  time."  Apart  from 
these,  there  is  that  constantly  increasing  number  of 
writers  who  definitely  and  consciously  are  "artists," 
and  who  consider  their  work  to  be  socially  important. 
And  these  writers,  I  repeat,  nearly  all  concur  in  that 
dogma  which  Wells  has  so  forcibly  phrased,  and  I 
have  quoted  above. 

Again,  I  say,  it  is  obvious  that  Mr.  Wells,  in 
common  with  most  of  the  more  forcible  and  influential 
writers  of  today,  has  come  at  last,  after  many  years 
of  restless  wandering  among  the  systems  and  the 
formulae  invented  by  men,  to  Religion;  he  has  re- 
turned to  God,  as  the  only  possible  solution  of  the 
mystery  of  human  suff'ering  and  subjection  and  deg- 
radation in  the  world  as  it  is  today. 

— And  I,  too,  at  last  made  that  discovery,  I,  too, 
found  my  Religion,  and  it  is  how  I  did  so,  and  with 
what  result,  that  now  remains  to  be  told. 

3.  A  Man  in  Search  of  his  Soul 

I  have  often  been  struck  by  the  fact  that  you  may 
(or  you  might  until  quite  recently)  read  most  modem 
American  and  English  literature — novels,  poetry,  es- 
says, biographies,  etc.,  without  ever  being  made  aware 
that  men  are  concerned  in  other  matters  than  material, 
or  sensual,  things  and  interests.  There  is  much  vague 
talk  of  "spirituality,"  it  is  tme,  especially  of  late, 
but  very  little  serious  examination  of  fundamental 
questions  dealing  in  a  concrete  way  with  the  mystery 


248  The  High  Romance 

of  man.  Few  modem  writers,  until  quite  lately, 
squarely  and  honestly  faced  the  queries  which  nearly 
every  individual  some  time  or  other  must  examine, 
namely, — 

Did  I  or  did  I  not  come  into  existence  accidentally? 

Am  I  a  product  of  mechanical  forces? 

Am  I  mortal  or  immortal? 

Is  there  conscious  life  for  me  after  the  happening 
we  call  death? 

What  is  the  meaning  of  my  life? 

What  is  the  answer  to  the  riddle  of  existence? 

But  this  silence  on  fundamental  subjects  is  broken. 
The  books  begin  to  multiply  in  which  these  questions 
are  treated.  Indeed  we  are  now  in  the  dawn  of  an 
epoch  when  these  questions  will  give  us  no  rest. 
Willy-nilly,  we  must  face  them.  The  soul-hunger  and 
the  soul-thirst  of  humanity  will  no  longer  be  denied. 
Strange  foods  are  offered  it,  and  are  eagerly  de- 
voured; for  if  the  soul  is  cut  away  from  its  true 
nourishment  it  will  turn  to  anything  to  satisfy  its  in- 
eluctable cravings. 

And,  as  I  go  through  the  records  of  my  own  blun- 
dering and  febrile  existence,  I  see  that  from  first  to 
last  what  I  have  been  trying  to  tell  is  the  story  of  a 
man  wandering  in  search  of  his  soul:  looking  every- 
where for  God. 

But  when  I  was  writing  of  my  earlier  adventures, 
I  did  not  know  this  palmary  face,  and  therefore  I 
omitted  mention  of  many  vital  things  which  now  I 
can  see  were  essential  to  the  understanding  of  my 
story,  and  necessary  for  me  to  consider,  if  I  were 
to  bring  my  quest  to  a  happy  ending.  .  .  . 

These  facts  I  now  propose  briefly  to  muster  to- 


The  New  Paganism  249 

gether,  passing  rapidly  through  them  to  the  conclu- 
sion of  all.  .  .  . 

Among  these  facts,  for  example,  were  these, 
namely,  that  as  a  child  I  was  baptized,  and  partook 
of  the  sacraments  of  penance,  communion,  and  con- 
firmation, in  the  Catholic  Church. 

Yet  these  facts  are  barely  mentioned  in  my  record ; 
because  for  most  of  my  life  they  seemed  to  me  to  be 
only  most  negligible,  accidental  facts;  of  which  I  had 
ceased  even  to  think.  Before  I  was  thirteen  years 
old,  all  religious  interest  had  completely  left  me. 
My  mother  had  been  a  Church  of  England  woman, 
joining  the  Roman  communion  when  she  married  my 
father,  but  never  really  consenting  to  its  claims,  and 
giving  them  up  after  her  husband's  death.  There- 
fore, I  was  brought  up  at  a  public  school  instead  of 
the  parochial  school,  in  spite  of  the  objections  of  my 
father  and  the  Catholic  friends  of  the  family.  For 
a  little  while  after  my  father  died  I  went  to  mass  and 
the  Catechism  class  on  Sundays,  but  they  made  only 
an  evanescent  impression  upon  me. 

For  a  brief  period,  a  month  or  two  at  most,  while 
I  was  at  the  Catholic  school,  in  the  infirmary,  nursing 
my  broken  leg,  the  personal  influence  of  a  kindly  old 
priest  who  used  to  visit  me  every  day  brought  about 
a  brief  phase  of  piety.  It  was,  however,  merely  of 
an  emotional  and  "literary"  type.  All  my  dreams 
were  of  living  a  hermit's  life  in  the  woods  and  putting 
up  crosses  over  springs  of  water  so  that  those  who 
drank  should  think  of  the  God  who  died  for  man. 
On  my  return  to  Halifax  this  streak  of  religious  emo- 
tionalism faded  away. 

I  liked  the  rites  and  ceremonies  of  the  church,  but 


250  The  High  Romance 

merely  for  artistic  reasons;  yet  even  this  slight  hold 
upon  me  was  soon  broken  after  I  went  a  few  times  to 
hear  an  American  Universalist  minister  who  was  then 
the  sensation  in  "liberal"  circles  in  Halifax. 

From  him,  and  from  a  very  self-conscious  Catholic 
apostate  who  took  me  to  these  meetings,  I  received  the 
infection  of  the  spirit  of  "science." 

4.  A  Pageant  of  Mystagogues 

It  was  in  the  air,  this  spirit,  twenty-five  years  ago, 
almost  as  powerfully  as  it  had  been  some  years  be- 
fore, in  the  period  following  the  work  of  Darwin, 
and  Huxley,  when  God  was  dethroned. 

This  spirit  did  not  really  lead  its  victims  to  a 
serious  personal  study  of  real  science,  or  of  religion; 
save  in  a  few  exceptional  cases.  It  simply  communi- 
cated itself  from  soul  to  soul;  all  souls  that  were  not 
awake  and  obedient  to  God  being  at  once  occupied 
by  the  spirit  of  materialistic  natural  "science."  So 
far  as  I  was  concerned,  I  simply  accepted  all  the  easy 
denials  of  religion  which  were  the  effects  of  the  new 
dispensation  upon  ignorant  and  un-educated  egotists; 
and  soon  the  subject  of  religion  completely  dropped 
out  of  my  mind. 

From  my  fourteenth  to  my  thirtieth  year  I  cannot 
recall  feeling  any,  even  the  slightest  interest  or  con- 
cern in  the  Christian  religion,  or  in  any  other.  Art 
was  the  only  thing  that  mattered:  art  and  my  self. 

The  only  bond  by  which  I  was  spiritually  attached 
to  others  was  formed  when  in  my  first  years  in  Boston 
I  fell  into  a  loose  and  sentimental,  not  a  reasoned- 
out  or  firm,  connection  with  Socialism. 


The  New  Paganism  251 

But  it  was  not  until  the  days  of  Helicon  Hall,  when 
I  came  to  share  the  same  conviction  that  was  animat- 
ing so  many  modem  writers,  namely,  that  the  Spirit 
of  Life  was  striving  to  express  itself  through  us, 
through  the  medium  of  art,  that  I  consciously  ex- 
perienced any  psychic  life. 

Art  and  self  were  really  my  gods;  but  still  I  was 
not  satisfied;  I  was  not  at  rest,  and  from  the  time  of 
that  going  forth  into  the  wilderness,  led  by  that 
strange,  inward  drawing,  which  I  have  described,  I 
began  to  take  an  ever-growing  interest  in  the  mani- 
festations of  the  strangely  powerful  and  singularly 
varied  spirit  of  modem  mysticism  as  it  was  display- 
ing itself  in  America  in  the  forms  of  Spiritism, 
New  Thought,  Christian  Science,  Mental  Healing, 
Theosophy,  Occult  Science,  etc.,  etc. 

I  became  an  omnivorous  reader  of  the  vast,  fungoid 
literature  of  the  subject.  I  attended  seances  and 
meetings.  I  sought  out  and  interviewed  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men  and  women  who  were  leaders  or 
followers  of  these  movements,  in  New  York,  Massa- 
chusetts, Chicago,  Los  Angeles,  San  Francisco, 
Boston,  and  elsewhere — from  men  like  William 
James  to  roughneck  fakers  like  Schlatter,  the  "Divine 
Healer." 

5.  Ghosts  in  Helicon  Hall 

It  was  my  sojourn  at  Helicon  Hall  that  led  me  into 
the  path  I  followed  among  the  new  cults  and  religious 
movements.  That  typical  colony  of  the  uneasy  spirits 
of  the  place  would  be  assembled  to  watch  a  table 
arisen  to  such  heights  of  fantasy  and  wide- 
spread influence  in  this  spiritually  distracted  country. 


252  The  High  Romance 

Spiritualism,  which  as  I  have  said,  was  repre- 
sented at  Helicon  Hall  by  several  devotees,  suddenly 
broke  out  there  in  a  spasm  of  fantastic  activity. 
Seances  began  in  the  rooms  of  the  woman  who  lived 
in  the  next  room  to  mine,  and  word  was  passed  about, 
supposedly  on  the  quiet,  to  "the  right  people,"  that 
there  was  a  chance  to  see  and  hear  strange  things. 
After  a  while,  however,  there  was  no  pretence  at 
secrecy,  and  sometimes  nearly  the  whole  population 
of  the  place  would  be  assembled  to  watch  a  table 
frantically  galloping  about,  with  Upton  Sinclair 
clinging  to  its  top,  his  justly  famous  legs  waving  in 
the  air. 

And  there  was  one  highly  exciting  night  when  we 
thought  that  we  were  about  to  improve  upon  all 
previously  discovered  or  invented  systems  of  com- 
municating with  the  other  world.  One  of  our  sitters 
was  a  young  man  who  understood  the  Morse  telegraph 
code,  and  the  raps  on  the  table  all  at  once  began 
to  come  in  groups  which  were  readable  as  code 
messages;  a  vast  improvement  over  the  cumbrous, 
ordinary  methods  of  asking  questions,  and  getting 
three  raps  for  yes  and  one  for  no,  and  so  forth,  and 
so  on.  But  the  invisible  telegrapher  failed  to  come 
any  more  after  two  or  three  seances;  nor  did  his  im- 
proved method  give  us  anything  of  importance  from 
the  invisible  world.  He  was  probably  too  progressive 
for  the  conservative  forces,  the  reactionaries,  over 
there,  and  they  squelched  him,  or  something. 

It  was  at  these  seances  that  I  first  met  William 
James.  He  heard  about  the  phenomena  at  Helicon 
Hall,  and  came  to  investigate.  Patiently,  like  a  true 
philosopher,  he  sat  at  the  table  one  night  when  we 


The  New  Paganism  253 

hoped  to  get  communications  befitting  such  a  famous 
man;  but,  alas,  there  were  plumbers  in  the  cellar,  at 
work  on  the  boiler,  and  no  spook  had  the  ghost  of 
a  show  to  make  itself  heard  through  the  brazen 
clangour  of  the  iron  pipes  leading  to  the  furnace. 


6.  The  Polish  Yogi 

It  was  after  Helicon  Hall  had  been  wiped  out  that 
I  next  met  the  Harvard  philosopher.  He  had  pub- 
lished in  the  American  Magazine  a  brief  version  of 
his  celebrated  address  before  the  American  Philo- 
sophical Association  concerning  the  hidden  energies 
of  man,  and  the  article  had  attracted  national  atten- 
tion. He  told  a  number  of  exceedingly  interesting 
stories  of  men  who  had  accomplished  extraordinary 
feats  of  self-suggestion,  or  performed  mighty  labours, 
under  the  influence  of  optimistic  ideas  which  inspired 
them  with  mental  and  spiritual  and  even  physical 
"second  wind,"  or  third  and  fourth  wind,  after  break- 
downs or  exhaustion  had  apparently  destroyed  or  im- 
paired their  forces.  And  he  affirmed  his  belief  that 
in  each  one  of  us  there  was  "a  reservoir  of  energy," 
which  each  one  of  us  might  "tap,"  if  we  only  willed  it 
so. 

I  asked  the  editor  of  The  American  to  follow  up  this 
article  by  a  series  of  articles  dealing  with  men  and 
women  who  had  accomplished  this  self-energizing 
process,  and  I  was  sent  to  Boston  to  talk  with  William 
James  about  the  matter,  and  collect  material  for 
articles  along  that  line. 

William  James  received  me  most  graciously.  I 
told  him  bow  young  men  throughout  the  country  were 


254  The  High  Romance 

looking  toward  him  for  spiritual  light  and  leading, 
and  I  shall  never  forget  the  sweet,  kindly,  self- 
deprecating  manner  in  which  he  received  my  some- 
what enthusiastic  compliments.  And  he  talked  with 
me  a  long  time  in  the  simplest  and  heartiest  fashion, 
walking  up  and  down  from  his  tall  desk,  at  which  he 
stood  to  do  much  of  his  writing,  to  the  fireplace,  and 
back  again;  interested,  vigorous,  kindly. 

His  chief  "case,"  in  the  hidden  energy  article,  he 
told  me,  was  an  European  philosopher,  an  authority 
on  Plato,  who  had  cured  himself  of  an  extremely 
bad  case  of  nervous  prostration  by  Hindoo  "yogi" 
methods  of  self-suggestion.  This  man  happened  to 
be  in  Boston  at  the  time  of  my  visit,  and  Professor 
James  gave  me  a  letter  to  him,  suggesting  that  perhaps 
the  full  account  of  his  remarkable  experiences  would 
give  me  material  such  as  I  sought. 

He  was  lecturing,  before  the  Lowell  Institute,  on 
Poland  and  its  literature.  His  name  was  Wincenty 
Lutoslawski,  a  Pole,  who  had  been  a  professor  at  the 
University  of  Cracow  until  the  Austrian  Government 
expelled  him  because  of  his  patriotic  utterances.  I 
heard  him  lecture  that  night.  Dressed  in  the  conven- 
tional evening  uniform,  Lutoslawski,  even  so,  was  an 
extraordinary  personage;  a  blazing  temperament. 
Professor  James,  who  saw  me  sitting  by  myself,  and 
joined  me  for  a  while,  told  me  that  never  in  all  his 
experience  had  he  known  Boston  audiences  so  stirred, 
and  so  willing  to  betray  the  fact,  as  they  had  been 
since  Lutoslawski  had  come  to  lecture  them. 

Next  day  I  presented  my  letter,  Lutoslawski  re- 
ceived me  in  his  room  in  a  Cambridge  boarding  house. 
He  was  now  dressed  in  some  collarless,  grey  flannel 


The  New  Paganism  255 

"hygienic"  garb,  and  his  room  was  littered  with  the 
various  kinds  of  nuts  and  "breakfast  foods"  on  which, 
so  he  informed  me,  he  existed;  flesh  foods  being  too 
gross  and  material  for  a  modem  mystic!  He  told  me 
about  his  Yogi  researches  in  India,  and  how  he  meant 
to  form  a  colony  of  American  mystics;  composed  of 
men  who  were  willing  to  work  with  him  in  the  in- 
vestigation of  occultism,  somewhere  in  California,  or 
Florida,  where  the  colony  would  receive  the  benefit 
of  the  psychic  force  of  sunshine,  and  the  open  air. 
And,  on  the  spot,  he  invited  me  to  join  him. 

But,  genuinely  as  I  was  interested,  I  was  not  ready 
to  follow  this  Polish  Yogi  into  the  wilderness,  and 
Lutoslawski  passed  on,  along  his  own  strange  trails, 
seeking,  as  I  sought,  the  high  romance.  I  continued 
to  hear  from  him,  now  and  then;  from  California, 
and  then  from  Austria,  and  Algiers.  In  the  last  place 
he  hoped  to  found  a  colony  to  study  the  conditions 
requisite  for  securing  the  birth  of  men  and  women 
of  genius.  .  .  . 

His  mission  in  America  failed,  so  far  as  the  colony 
was  concerned.  He  afterwards  sent  me  a  volume 
written  in  French — ^he  wrote  his  books  in  Polish,  or 
English,  or  German,  or  French,  with  equal  facility 
— on  the  Human  Will;  based  upon  his  study  of  the 
American  new  thought  movements. 

7.  A  Chicago  Occultist 

Then  there  was  the  "T.  K." 

In  a  ranch  house  in  Arizona  I  discovered  a  book 
called  the  "Great  Work,"  written  by  "T.  K."  It  was 
a  strangely  interesting  and  powerfully  written  thing, 


256  The  High  Romance 

purporting  to  be  by  a  man  sent  to  this  country  by  a 
secret  centre  of  mystical  "adepts"  in  India  for  the 
purpose  of  instructing  Americans  in  the  methods  for 
developing  spiritual  consciousness  and  power  ac- 
cording to  the  teachings  handed  down  from  the  ancient 
mystery  religions  of  India,  and  perpetuated  in  the 
"great  school." 

I  wrote  to  the  "T.  K."  He  said  in  reply  that  my 
letter  interested  him,  but  that  if  I  meant  to  be  his 
pupil,  the  next  step  would  need  to  be  a  personal  inter- 
view. So  when  next  I  passed  through  Chicago,  I 
sought  him  out,  and  spent  an  evening  in  his  com- 
pany, and  he  told  me  his  story — or,  anyhow,  part 
of  it. 

Many  years  before  he  had  been  an  editor  in  San 
Francisco.  He  gave  up  journalism  for  the  bar.  In 
his  youth  he  had  abandoned  all  religious  associatons. 
In  manhood,  his  interest  in  religion  re-awakened.  He 
began  (as  so  many  of  these  queer  mystics  do)  with 
spiritualism.  Becoming  convinced  of  its  extreme 
danger  to  those  who  dabbled  in  its  necromantic 
practices,  he  gave  this  up  and  studied  other  forms  of 
modem  mysticism.  One  day,  as  he  was  crossing 
Market  Street,  in  San  Francisco  (all  the  singular 
things  that  can  happen  take  place  in  this  romantic 
city),  he  was  tapped  on  the  shoulder  by  a  stranger. 

"You  are  Mr.  So  and  So?"  this  stranger  asked. 

"Yes." 

"I  have  an  important  message  for  you.  May  I 
speak  to  you  in  private?" 

"Certainly.     Come  to  my  office." 

He  led  the  way  to  his  law  office.  There  the 
man  unfolded  his  extraordinary  message.     He  spoke 


The  New  Paganism  257 

correct  English,  his  attire  was  the  ordinary  garb  of 
the  Occident.  But,  he  continued,  he  was,  neverthe- 
less, a  Hindu;  and  he  was  also  the  emissary,  or  the 
ambassador,  of  the  secret  college  of  mystical  adepts 
which  in  India  for  untold  centuries  had  kept  the 
light  of  the  ancient  mystery  religion  burning.  The 
time  had  now  come,  however,  when  the  Orient  was 
to  send  its  message  of  spiritual  power  to  the  Occident, 
which  was  threatened  with  utter  destruction  because 
of  its  rank  materialism.  The  "great  school"  meant 
to  form  centres  in  the  United  States.  Several  Ameri- 
cans had  been  under  observation.  My  informant  was 
one  of  them.  It  now  rested  with  himself  to  say  if  he 
would  proceed  any  further.  If  he  desired  to  take  up 
the  work,  he  was  immediately  to  go  with  his  Hindu 
guide  to  a  place  in  the  Colorado  mountains,  where  he 
would  be  given  his  preliminary  training.  Then  he 
must  go  to  India  to  complete  his  education  in  the  great 
school  itself. 

This  fantastic  proposal  was  immediately  accepted. 
My  informant  went  to  Colorado  with  the  Hindu.  He 
stayed  alone  with  him  in  the  high  mountains  for 
eighteen  months.  Then  he  went  to  India  and  for 
several  years  studied  in  the  secret  school  of  Hindu 
adepts.  His  special  work  was  to  learn  how  to  ex- 
press Hindu  occultism  in  terms  understandable  by 
American  readers.  When  it  was  judged  that  he  was 
adequately  trained,  he  was  sent  back  to  the  United 
States.  He  was  not  to  accept  any  money  from  any- 
body. He  must  earn  his  living  by  his  own  work; 
work  quite  outside  the  "great  work."  And  he  must 
attack  two  things,  and  uphold  one  thing.  The  two 
things  he  was   to   attack  were  hypnotism  and  the 


258  The  High  Romance 

Catholic  Church,  which,  he  declared,  were  the  two 
chief  expressions,  and  instruments,  of  the  evil  force 
in  the  universe;  and  which  were  continually  in  oppo- 
sition to  the  progress  of  the  truth,  which  he  was  to 
uphold;  this  truth  being  the  occultism  taught  by  the 
Hindu  school  of  "adepts." 

He  became  a  druggist  in  Oak  Park,  Chicago,  and 
thus  made  his  living.  But  his  real  work  was  to 
teach  American  men  and  women  how  to  develop  in 
themselves  a  sort  of  divine  relation  to  the  occult  force 
of  the  universe,  so  that  they  could  travel,  as  he  did, 
even  to  India,  on  "the  astral  plane,"  while  their  bodies 
quietly  rested.  Mystic  masonry,  he  said,  was  really 
a  part  of  the  "great  work"  as  taught  by  the  Indian 
school,  and  the  innermost  circles  of  Masonry  were 
devoted  to  occult  researches  such  as  the  Rosicrucians 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  the  hermetic  philosophers,  and 
other  organizations  of  past  ages,  had  passed  on  to 
modern  times.  He  carried  on  his  particular  branch 
of  the  work  for  the  most  part  by  correspondence,  and 
his  pupils  were  scattered  in  nearly  every  state  of  the 
union. 

— But  I  was  still  unconvinced  (though  to  this  day 
I  feel  assured  that  the  "T.  K."  was  starkly  honest, 
according  to  his  lights),  and  I  remained  undetached. 
All  this  was  interesting — ^but  for  me  it  was  not  the 
path  of  attainment. 

8.  The  Living  Dead  Man 

Also  there  was  "Paul  Karishka,"  the  Christian 
Hermetic. 

I  met  him  in  Los  Angeles,  where  the  cults  and  oc- 


The  New  Paganism  259 

cult  systems  fairly  jostle  each  other  in  competition 
for  public  favour. 

Here  was  a  man  who  had  been  a  United  States  Cir- 
cuit Court  Judge,  and  who  at  the  time  I  met  him, 
and  for  many  years  before,  was  a  highly  respected 
and  successful  lawyer,  and  a  wealthy  man.  He  was, 
he  told  me,  for  we  had  many  long  conversations, 
a  native  of  Maine  who  had  come  west  when  young 
and  grown  up  with  the  country.  He,  too,  had  been 
without  religion,  and  had  begun  to  long  for  religion. 
He,  too,  like  the  "T.  K."  had  met  a  mysterious 
stranger  from  the  Orient,  a  man,  this  time,  from 
Damascus,  representing  a  secret  lodge  of  "Christian 
Hermetics."  He  had  gone  with  this  man  to  Alaska, 
and  been  instructed,  amid  the  lonely  mountains,  in 
the  mystic  lore  of  the  ancient  East.  Then  under  the 
pen-name  of  "Paul  Karishka"  he  had  written  many 
books,  novels  and  essays,  designed  to  spread  the 
doctrine  of  self-development  of  occult  powers,  and 
had  taught  many  pupils  the  way  to  the  secret  of  the 
initiates. 

— This  man  died  a  few  years  ago.  After  his 
death  the  poet  Elsa  Barker,  published  books  purport- 
ing to  be  automatic  writings  received  by  her  from  a 
"living  dead  man";  who  was  no  other  than  my  old 
Los  Angeles  acquaintance,  Paul  Karishka. 

9.  The  Truth  That  Makes  You  Rich 

And  Bumell,  who  with  splendid  simplicity  termed 
himself  the  "Truth"! 

Attired  in  a  magnificent  leopard  skin  dressing 
gown,  with  a  huge  mastiff  crouching  at  his  feet,  this 


260  The  High  Romance 

man,  also  a  Los  Angeles  product,  told  me  he  would 
not  take  a  million  dollars  for  his  business.  At  his 
door  there  would  often  be  a  line  of  limousines,  as  his 
pupils,  mostly  women,  waited  their  turn  to  learn  the 
"truth"  at  rates  averaging  about  twenty  dollars  a 
lesson.  On  Sunday  nights  the  large  room  in  his 
house  where  he  received  the  public,  at  one  dollar  each 
person,  would  be  crowded;  while  Bumell  lectured, 
and  a  stenographer  took  down  his  words.  Carbon 
copies  of  the  lecture  would  sell  for  as  high  as  twenty 
dollars  each.  The  following  paragraph  will  give,  I 
think,  a  fair  idea  of  at  least  the  construction  of  these 
lectures. 

^'Fishes  would  nothing  fresh  but  fire  salt  refuses 
condoles  the  frenzy  sky  adventures  Dionysus  forces 
inner  revolting  from  but  abysses  roaring  far  visions 
depths,^' — and  so  forth,  on  and  on,  for  an  hour. 

His  language,  in  other  terms,  was  absolutely  un- 
intelligible; but  by  a  species  of  incantation,  as  he 
talked,  and  by  means  of  some  inner  key  of  which  only 
his  disciples  have  the  secret,  this  mystical  gibberish 
apparently  thrilled  his  devotees  with  profound  and 
consoling  messages. 

I  knew  a  college  professor  who  was  an  advanced 
pupil,  and  who  believed  that  he  gained  tremendous 
personal  power  and  mastery  from  his  instructor.  I 
know  of  another  man,  a  celebrated  author,  who  be- 
came one  of  the  best  known  exponents  of  the  extreme 
forms  of  modem  art  and  philosophy,  after  being 
"developed"  by  Bumell's  "truth." 

And  all  these  were  only  a  few  of  the  singular 
persons  and  cults  with  whom  and  with  which  I  came 


The  New  Paganism  261 

into  contact.  Since  that  time  they  have  increased 
more  and  more — to  say  nothing  about  the  Theoso- 
phists,  and  the  Vedantists,  with  their  "temples"  in  San 
Francisco  and  elsewhere,  and  the  Bahaists,  and  the 
other  Oriental  importations;  and  leaving  out  of  ac- 
count the  swarming  and  ever-multiplying  forms  of 
New  Thought,  and  Christian  Science. 

10.  The  Temple  of  Vulgarity 

From  most  of  these  movements  of  the  modem 
spirit  as  expressed  in  the  mystical  cults,  however,  I 
gained  nothing  but  disappointment. 

Christian  Science,  for  instance,  had  no  power  to 
move  me  save  to  disgust.  As  a  reporter,  I  was 
present  in  the  famous  Mother  Church  in  Boston  when 
it  was  opened.  As  one  of  the  pilgrims  to  the  room 
where  the  writing  table  of  Mrs.  Eddy  is  kept  I  stood 
in  line  for  an  hour  or  so  while  the  bell  rang  at  in- 
tervals and  the  room  was  emptied  of  visitors  and 
filled  again  with  others.  At  last  I  reached  it:  the 
sanctum  sanctorum.  One  glance  at  that  plush  and 
crimson  interior:  that  bourgeois  dream  of  heavenly 
luxury  and  beauty,  was  enough  for  me.  It  revealed 
the  soul  of  that  stupid  and  hopelessly  commonplace 
delusion  which  has  gained  such  a  strong  hold  upon 
the  American  public  simply  because  soul-hunger  and 
soul-thirst  are  universal,  and  affect  even  the  most 
commonplace  and  ordinary  and  negative  lives. 
There  is  not  a  spark  of  real  art  struck  forth  from  the 
stupid,  otiose  cults  of  Christian  Science  and  the  "New 
Thought"  movements  in  this  country.  They  are  ap- 
pallingly banal.     And  that  fact  for  me  was  condem- 


262  The  High  Romance 

nation  enough.  Unless  a  religion  can  call  forth  those 
great  reactions  of  the  soul  which  manifest  in  true 
poetry  and  painting  and  sculpture  and  architecture 
and  drama,  it  surely  is  not  a  real  religion. 

Still,  I  could  see  and  freely  grant  that  though  these 
multiplying  mystical  cults  for  the  greater  part  lacked 
all  reality  and  true  power,  they  nevertheless  were 
proofs  of  the  breaking  down  of  the  materialistic 
systems,  and  of  those  so-called  Christian  sects  which 
denied  the  supernatural  elements  of  religion  and  only 
accepted  moral  and  ethical  elements.  1  saw  that  the 
human  soul  could  not  rest  content  with  such  sapless 
creeds.  And  I  could  understand  though  I  could  not 
share  the  feelings  of  those  who  turned  to  Christian 
Science  or  to  other  forms  of  the  multifarious  mys- 
tical cults,  for  in  them  they  found  some  satisfaction 
for  the  imperious  desire  of  the  human  soul  to  escape 
from  the  limitations  of  the  visible  world,  and  the 
world  of  mere  intellectualism,  and  the  world  of  time, 
and  to  enter  the  realms  of  the  invisible,  of  the  spir- 
itual, the  inynortal  and  eternal. 

11.  The  Creed  of  Pantheism 

My  investigations  were  two-fold  in  character;  first 
of  all,  they  were  incited  by  a  personal  and  insatiable 
interest  in  the  subject  of  the  occult;  secondly,  I  con- 
sidered it  would  supply  me  with  material  for  my 
work.  After  my  studies  had  been  under  way  for 
some  time,  I  received  a  commission  to  write  a  series 
of  articles,  dealing  with  modem  mysticism,  to  be  en- 
titled "New  America,"  for  a  monthly  review  now  ex- 
tinct, Van  Vordens  Magazine,     This  task  caused  me 


The  New  Paganism  263 

to  attempt  the  co-ordination  of  my  desultory  re- 
searches, and  to  reach  some  definite  point  of  view  in 
regard  to  them. 

This  point  of  view  I  came  to  consider  something 
very  important  indeed,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  noth- 
ing other  than  a  new  dispensation  of  the  fundamental 
Spirit  of  Life  was  opening  its  beneficent  reign  on 
earth. 

To  me  it  seemed,  as  I  wrote  at  the  time,  that  we 
were  living  amid  the  joyous  throes  of  a  revolution  of 
peace;  a  revolution  of  love.  The  age  of  materialism, 
together  with  all  the  creaking  and  fantastic  survivals 
of  old  ignorances  and  out-worn  habits  of  thought 
known  as  orthodox  Christianity — were  passing  away, 
and  with  them  would  pass  the  miseries  and  the  slaver- 
ies of  man.  "You  put  the  case,  if  I  may  say  so,  in  a 
megaphone  manner,"  William  James  wrote  to  me; 
"but  on  the  whole  I  think  you  are  right." 

I  saw — as  I  put  the  matter — that  "Love  is  the  true 
God  of  humanity's  ever-spreading  religious  sense; 
and  the  world  is  turning  gladly  to  its  radiant  altar, 
in  the  light  of  which  the  ideals  of  the  Brotherhood  of 
Man  in  the  Fatherhood  of  God  are  purged  clean  of 
cant  and  formalism,  and  Fear  is  known  as  the  only 
devil — a  devil  that  man  is  learning  to  treat  as  such 
a  weak-spined  demon  deserves  to  be  treated,  simply 
by  ignoring  it.  Love  creates — Fear  destroys;  Love 
is  health,  happiness,  light;  fear  is  disease  and  the  only 
death.  From  man's  rapidly-developing  sense  of  his 
own  creative  and  curative  power — from  his  sense  of 
his  own  divinity  as  a  part  of  divine  and  everlasting 
life — there  is  up-springing  and  flowing  in  all  direc- 
tions movements  which  are  profoundly  affecting  the 


264  The  High  Romance 

human  race.  Some  of  these  movements  are  fantastic 
distortions  of  truth;  some  are  the  masks  of  mercenary 
charlatans ;  but  the  world  should  purge  the  false  from 
the  true  and  partake  of  the  great  good  underlying 
all.  And  there  comes  to  those  who  communicate  with 
this  new  spirit  a  sense  of  their  own  progress  from  a 
vague  beginning  in  darkness,  on  through  merely  neb- 
ulous consciousness,  down  to  the  vivid  self-conscious- 
ness of  the  present.  From  being  merely  specks  of 
insentient  life,  men  and  women  have  developed  into 
life-consciousness;  little  by  little,  and  now  and  then 
by  leaps  and  bounds;  and  then  they  passed  into  self- 
consciousness ;  and  now  we  are  rapidly  entering  into 
the  inheritance  of  the  next  great  step  forward  in 
evolution,  namely,  the  entrance  into  cosmic  con- 
sciousness. Man,  at  last,  is  acquiring  positive  knowl- 
edge of  his  spiritual  existence.  This  knowledge  is 
coming  to  him  not  only  through  the  use  of  his  reason- 
ing powers,  but  also  through  the  gradual  unfolding 
of  new  and  supra-normal  faculties.  Phenomena  such 
as  are  evidenced  in  hypnotism,  clairvoyance,  thought- 
transference,  spiritism,  and  the  like,  are  the  out- 
ward signs  of  this  growing  inner  faculty.  On  all  sides 
these  signs  of  the  new  times,  these  tidings  and  tokens 
of  the  unfolding  and  developing  of  the  new  world  of 
sunshine,  hope,  strength,  health,  and  love,  are  appear- 
ing and  multiplying." 

And — as  I  also  wrote  at  that  time — I  hoped  to  be 
"a  Voice  of  this  new  world,  and  a  Voice  of  the  people, 
telling  the  new  tales  of  hope,  and  singing  the  new 
songs  of  joy,  and  so  be  one  of  many  builders,  helping 
to  build  for  the  people  the  crystal  house  of  beauty. 

"For  at  last  (I  dared  to  affirm)  I  knew  what  I  had 


The  New  Paganism  265 

long  sought  to  know;  I  knew — myself;  I  had  found 
myself.  And  in  finding  myself  I  had  found  the  clue 
to  all  other  souls,  and  to  all  the  secrets  of  life.  They 
merge  into  one  secret,  and  this  secret  is  that  which  is 
at  the  core  of  the  new  religious  movements;  it  is  joy, 
endless  joy;  strong,  sure  joy  that  mounts  ever  on- 
wards and  upwards,  to  higher  regions  of  life.  All 
is  life;  death  is  but  the  shadow  of  a  gesture  of  life; 
a  shadow  seen  only  in  the  minds  of  men  who  are  not 
yet  awakened;  of  men  still  wandering  in  the  darkness 
of  sense  illusion  and  of  self -illusion;  the  illusion  of 
the  narrow,  personal  self  which  men  must  transcend 
as  they  rise  into  the  consciousness  of  the  great  self 
that  is  behind,  and  above,  and  below,  and  before,  and 
permeating  all  things. 

"For  those  who  understand  the  New  Spirit,  know 
that  the  universe  is  not  dead  matter,  but  a  living  and 
eternal  force  of  which  man  is  part;  and  that  man's 
soul  is  immortal;  that  the  cosmos  is  so  ordered  that 
all  things  and  all  events  work  together  for  the  good 
that  is  to  be  the  consummation  of  all  things.  And 
always  the  search  for  the  higher  good  will  proceed, 
onwards  and  ever  upwards." 

And,  obviously  enough,  the  search  required  a 
leader — or,  rather,  many  leaders.  Should  modesty 
restrain  me  from  claiming  a  post  among  them? 

Nay,  modesty  forbid!  Get  thee  behind  me,  mod- 
esty! 

12.  Antimonies 

And  at  last  I  boiled  it  all  down — all  my  adventures 
and  researches  in  modem  mysticism — and  extracted 
the  quintessential  facts,  as  follows: — 


266  The  High  Romance 

First,  that  the  force  behind  all  the  phenomena  of 
life  was  a  spiritual  force,  and  not  merely  a  material, 
or  chemical,  force. 

Second,  that  it  was  a  force  that  could  be  controlled 
and  used  by  man. 

Third,  that  the  human  will  was  the  instrument  by 
means  of  which  the  spiritual  force  of  the  universe 
could  be  utilized. 

Fourth,  that  the  paramount  duty  of  those  aWake 
to  these  facts  was  to  make  them  known  to  the  world, 
for  these  were  the  truths  which  when  known  would 
make  men  free  indeed. 

•  •••••• 

Irrefragible,  it  seemed  to  me,  were  these  shining 
and  energetic  truths. 

But  .  .  .  but,  unfortunately,  there  was  another 
fact;  a  fact  which  knocked  all  the  others,  so  far  at 
least  as  I  was  concerned,  into  a  cocked  hat.  This  fact 
was  the  highly  embarrassing  circumstance  that  having 
reached  the  point  where  I  had  discovered  that  the 
power  of  my  own  will  was  the  greatest  of  all  human 
powers,  and  the  key  to  all  good,  to  all  my  desires — 
the  key  which,  as  William  James  had  long  ago  said 
to  me  in  Boston,  was  the  master-key  that  unlocked  the 
bottomless  reservoir  of  hidden  energy — I  had  com- 
pletely lost  control  of  my  will. 

I  was  like  a  man  who  had  locked  up  the  pearl  of 
great  price  in  a  safe,  and  who  had  forgotten  the  com- 
bination. 

I  stood  at  the  door  of  the  earthly  paradise,  but  I 
couldn't  get  in,  for  nobody  could  let  me  in  but  myself, 
and  I  had  lost,  or  broken,  or  gambled  away,  the  golden 
key. 


The  New  Paganism  267 

I  could  make  resolutions,  but  I  could  not  keep 
them.  I  had  grown  quite  undependable,  untrust- 
worthy; to  myself,  and  all  others.  For  example, 
there  was  the  matter  of  drink.  All  my  life  from 
boyhood  I  had  been  in  the  habit  of  going  on  wild 
sprees;  seeking  and  finding  mad  adventures  in 
Alcoholia.  To  me  drink  was  an  escape ;  a  flight  from 
the  sordid  and  the  commonplace  aspects  of  life.  It 
opened  a  door  to  excitement,  to  drama,  to  romance. 
And  I  had  always  assumed  that  I  could  do  as  I  pleased 
in  this  respect;  that  I  could  leave  ofl"  drinking  when- 
ever I  desired.  But  I  did  not  so  desire.  And,  by 
and  by,  though  I  did  desire  to  stop,  I  could  not.  My 
pose  of  being  the  captain  of  my  fate,  the  master  of 
my  soul,  in  this  respect,  as  in  so  many  others,  simply 
could  not  be  sustained.  I  was  not  a  master;  I  was  a 
slave. 

As  I  gradually  realized  my  situation,  I  made  more 
earnest  attempts  than  in  past  days  to  leave  off;  but  I 
grew  worse  and  worse.  My  orgies  grew  ever  more 
ill-timed  and  desperate.  The  only  concession  which 
I  would  make  to  my  new-found  spiritual  interests  was 
to  adopt  yellow  chartreuse  for  my  favourite  brew  of 
illusion;  because  I  had  somewhere  read  that  the 
formula  of  this  wine  was  a  monkish  secret  which 
science  could  not  penetrate.  .  .  . 

And  this  sardonic  antimony  extended  its  impassable 
gulf  between  all  my  ideals  and  my  actual  life;  be- 
tween what  I  wished  to  do  and  be,  and  what  I  really 
was,  and  what  I  did. 

More  and  more,  the  humiliating  weight  of  this 
knowledge  of  real  failure  weighed  down  upon  me  and 
crushed  my  spirit.     I  was  forced  to  see  myself  as  one 


268  The  High  Romance 

who  taught,  but  who  could  not  do  what  he  taught;  a 
living  lie.  And  I  was  but  one  of  many  artists 
whom  I  knew  to  be  like  me  in  this  respect — writers 
who  called  upon  others  to  follow  them  where  they 
themselves  could  not  go;  writers  who  set  themselves 
up,  as  I  was  fain  to  do,  to  be  prophetic  and  creative, 
destroying  old  creeds  and  formulating  new  ones,  but 
who  only  substituted  vain  words  for  reality.  All — 
all  without  exception — after  passing  through  phases 
of  ebullient  exaltation  and  excitement,  became  sad 
or  mad  or  bad — never,  never  really  or  permanently 
glad.  There  was  nothing  stable  in  their  volatile  and 
fantastic  forms  of  religion  and  government  and  art. 
Their  theories  were  only  meant  for  other  people  to 
carry  out.  Only  here  and  there  could  you  find 
one  of  these  modem  prophets  willing  himself  to  do 
what  he  preached,  save  only  when  he  preached 
sensual  indulgence,  under  the  title  of  "the  larger  free- 
dom," or  "the  higher  morality,"  or  "liberty  of 
life."  But  only  now  and  then  did  a  Tolstoi  or  a 
Thoreau,  or  a  Whitman  or  Whitman's  disciple,  Ed- 
ward Carpenter,  attempt  to  carry  out  any  theory  of 
social  or  religious  "reform"  which  would  entail  hard- 
ship or  moral  effort.  As  one  typical  modem  ex- 
pounder of  "advanced  ideas"  recently  stated  the  case 
in  a  letter  to  the  New  York  Times:  "/  put  forward 
the  claim  that  a  man  must  not  he  judged  upon  what 
he  is  but  upon  what  he  writes!"  That  is  the  true  creed 
of  the  modem  artist,  the  modem  literary  "uplifter." 
Never  mind  what  I  do  or  what  I  am,  but  only  what  I 
write! 

It  is  the  utter  prostitution  of  the  sacred  Word! 


The  New  Paganism  269 

Well,  here  it  was  that  I  broke  away  from  the  art 
that  would  be  religion  without  obeying  the  very  first 
law  of  religion,  which  is  sacrifice — primarily  self- 
sacrifice. 

The  deification  of  self,  in  these  modem  times,  came 
to  its  frightful  climax  in  Nietzsche,  on  the  day  when 
he  telegraphed  to  Georg  Brandes:  "Write  for  me 
the  music  of  my  new  song!  For  I  have  found  the 
new  heaven  and  the  new  earth!"  And  then  he  was 
led  away — poor,  shattered  soul! — ^with  an  asylum 
nurse  wiping  the  drooling  lips  that  had  attempted  to 
sing  the  psalm  of  the  Apocalypse  of  Self. 

Yet  one  may  admire  Nietzsche  much  more  than  his 
swarm  of  flabby  disciples.  He  in  all  honesty  at  least 
attempted  to  achieve  his  own  ideal.  But  most  of  the 
swarm  of  would  be  saviours  of  society  and  liberators 
of  the  human  soul  stick  by  the  fallacious  creed  ex- 
pressed so  well  in  the  letter  I  have  quoted  above. 
"Never  mind  what  I  do  or  what  I  say  but  only  what  I 
write." 

From  this  creed  I  recanted,  disgusted  by  the  anti- 
mony so  visible  in  myself  between  my  ideals  and  my 
practice,  and  discernible  also  in  nearly  all  the  rest 
of  the  writers  of  the  day. 

Art  was  a  great  power;  but  the  exaltation  of  Art 
into  religion  was  idolatry. 

Will  was  a  tremendous  force;  but  self-will  was 
essentially  suicidal. 

What  was  the  power  beyond  and  above  the  power 
of  art  and  of  self-will;  the  final  power? 

What  could  it  be,  but  God? 

And  I  set  my  face  at  last  towards  Him,  Who  Is, 


270  The  High  Romance 

and  Was,  and  Is  to  Be,  and  the  supreme  adventure  of 
the  high  romance  led  me  forth  from  my  hut  among 
the  pines,  and  up  the  trail  that  led  away  from  it — 
the  old  trail  worn  by  the  feet  of  the  Spanish  padres 
long  ago — along  the  slope  of  Mount  Carmel.  ,  ,  . 


CHAPTER  XII 

SISTER   TERESA 

1.  On  the  Road  to  Monterey 

IT  is  only  in  looking  backward  that  the  omens  and 
portents  of  the  great  adventure,  which  now  was 
dawning,  fall  into  any  semblance  of  order  and  con- 
nection. At  the  time,  things  happened,  that  was  all. 
Not  until  the  most  palpably  extraordinary  occur- 
rences arrived  did  I  give  what  was  happening  any 
special  attention,  and  even  then  I  did  not  see  their 
relation  to  each  other.  But  now  I  can  discern  the 
connecting  links  of  cause  and  effect  which  led  me  to 
the  supreme  event. 

It  was  at  Carmel-by-the-Sea  that  Junipero  Serra 
founded  the  central  one  of  all  his  missions,  and  there 
he  died  and  was  buried.  Though  the  mission  still 
stands,  Carmel  is  now  more  celebrated  for  the  fact 
that  it  is  a  colony  of  artists,  poets,  fictionists,  painters, 
and  their  followers,  than  because  it  was  the  cradle  of 
religion  in  the  west.  .  .  .  Rather  typical,  is  it  not? 
of  an  age  when  Art  has  endeavoured  to  assume  more 
and  more  a  consciously  religious  function  in  life.  .  .  . 

Nowadays  it  is  only  once  a  week  that  the  old 
mission  is  anything  more  than  something  which  tour- 
ists motor  over  from  Del  Monte  to  snap-shot  or 
glance  at,  or  which  painters  sketch  because  its  historic 
interest  appeals  to  them,  or  else  because  its  adobe 

walls  against  the  sapphire  sea  or  the  turquoise  sky 

271 


^  Ji 


272  The  High  Romance 

— or  the  sky  of  pearly-grey  if  the  ubiquitous  sea-fog 
is  about — assumes  a  heavenly  beauty  of  colour  that 
evokes  from  them  a  creative  impulse.  Once  a  week 
the  parish  priest, — very  appropriately,  a  Spaniard, — 
drives  from  Monterey  and  says  Mass.  A  handful 
of  Catholics  worship;  tourists  come  drawn  by  curios- 
ity. Then  the  church  is  locked  up  again  for  another 
week,  except  when  curious  visitors  or  pious  pilgrims 
come. 

But  in  the  village  hidden  among  the  pines  north 
and  west,  the  writers  are  at  work,  and  the  painters 
are  busy,  and  the  influences  of  Art  go  forth  con- 
stantly in  colour,  and  line,  and  words.  ...  An  age, 
this  of  ours,  as  W.  B.  Yeats  has  written — "when 
we  are  agreed  that  we  'make  our  souls'  out  of 
some  one  of  the  great  poets,  of  ancient  times,  or 
out  of  Shelley  or  Wordsworth,  or  Goethe  or  Balzac 
or  Flaubert  or  Count  Tolstoy,  in  the  books  he  wrote 
before  he  became  a  prophet  and  fell  into  a  lesser 
order,  or  out  of  Mr.  Whistler's  pictures,  while  we 
amuse  ourselves,  or  at  best  make  a  poorer  sort  of 
soul,  by  listening  to  sermons  or  by  doing  or  by  not 
doing  certain  things.  We  write  of  great  writers, 
even  of  writers  whose  beauty  would  once  have  seemed 
an  unholy  beauty,  with  rapt  sentences  like  those  our 
fathers  kept  for  the  beatitudes  and  mysteries  of  the 
Church;  and  no  matter  what  we  believe  with  our  lips, 
we  believe  with  our  hearts  that  beautiful  things,  as 
Browning  said,  .  .  .  'Have  lain  bumingly  on  the 
Divine  Hand.' "... 

Yes;  so,  for  the  most  part,  we  of  Carmel  believed, 
as  did  we  of  Helicon  Hall,  and  of  those  radical  circles 
in  New  York  where  aforetime  I  mingled  with  the 


Sister  Teresa  273 

spirits  of  my  time.  We  would  make  a  few  changes 
in  the  creed  as  proposed  by  Yeats;  among  the  "soul- 
makers"  named  by  him  we  would  admit  the  experts 
in  socialism,  and  "social  service,"  and  also,  maybe, 
nowadays,  the  leaders  of  "intellectual  anarchy,"  and 
the  LW.W. 

I  was  in  company  that  day,  with  a  new  acquaint- 
ance, an  English  music  critic,  a  prose  stylist  named 
Redfern  Mason,  who  had  been  converted  to  Cathol- 
icism, he  told  me,  by  reading  Dante,  and  by  the 
sight  of  Cardinal  Newman  lying  in  his  coffin.  My 
friend  was  on  his  way  to  Monterey,  to  assist  at  Mass, 
and  I  was  accompanying  him  .  .  .  Why?  .  .  .  Well, 
at  that  time  I  would  have  been  hard  put  to  it  to 
answer  definitely;  all  I  can  say  is  that  I  was  at- 
tracted. 

At  Mass,  I  wondered  at  my  friend,  at  his  great  de- 
votion; yet  I  knew,  though  vaguely,  that  Something 
was  Happening;  that  the  Mass  was  no  empty  form; 
and  it  was  an  Action.  But  I  had  so  long  forgotten  all 
the  little  knowledge  of  my  childhood,  that  I  could 
not  understand  what  the  Mass  really  meant,  and  really 
was. 

As  we  followed  the  trail  through  the  odorous  pine 
woods,  the  day  I  have  in  mind,  we  talked  of 
"mysticism"  and  its  relation  to  life  and  religion; 
he  maintaining  that  when  it  was  true,  it  was  simply 
a  portion  of  Catholic  religion,  and  I  maintaining  that 
it  stood  apart  from  and  above  all  known  creeds  and 
formal  faiths.  But  on  one  thing  we  fully  agreed, 
namely,  that  all  the  signs  of  the  times  pointed  to  a 
great  revival  of  interest  in  the  supernatural.  The 
soul  of  the  world  was  weary;  materialism  was  futile 


274  The  High  Romance 

to  console  or  guide  it;  the  world  invisible  was  opening 
many  vistas  of  adventure  and  affording  glimpses  to 
those  privileged  or  courageous  souls  who  boldly  and 
persistently  explored  its  purlieus.  To  my  compan- 
ion, many  of  these  vistas  opened  perilously  near  the 
Pit,  or  into  regions  where  the  False  Light  rosily  shone 
upon  a  region  of  illusions  which  hid,  as  a  golden 
curtain  over  the  mouth  of  a  chamel  house,  the  do- 
mains of  diabolism;  and  I,  after  all,  despite  my  con- 
trary opinion,  was  forced  to  remember  back  to  several 
episodes  in  my  own  experience  which  went  to  show 
that  there  unquestionably  were  grave  dangers  in  the 
so-called  mystical  planes  of  thought  and  life.  I 
spoke  of  some  modem  mystics  of  my  personal  ac- 
quaintance. He  said:  "They  are  false.  They  are 
merely  mystagogues.  But  have  you  read  the  life  of 
Sister  Teresa?" 

"George  Moore's  novel?"  I  asked. 
"Oh,  that!"  he  said.  "No;  I  don't  mean  that." 
Then  he  told  me  of  a  book  by  a  young  French  Car- 
melite nun,  who  had  died  a  few  years  before.  The 
book  had  been  translated  into  all  the  languages. 
Thousands  of  apparently  miraculous  events  had  fol- 
lowed prayers  addressed  to  her.  She  had  begged 
when  dying  to  be  allowed  to  return  from  the  super- 
natural world  to  this  world  after  death  and  do  what 
good  she  might  for  us  who  lived  here.  In  her  own 
words,  she  had  said  she  would  "let  fall  a  shower  of 
roses"  after  her  death,  each  rose  a  spiritual  favour. 
And  she  had  more  than  fulfilled  her  pledge;  for  the 
shower  had  become  a  torrent.  It  now  required  a 
monthly  magazine  of  many  pages  to  record  the  world- 
wide evidences  of  Sister  Teresa's  power.     In  prosaic 


Sister  Teresa  275 

St.  Louis,  a  Catholic  newspaper  each  week  printed 
several  columns  of  acknowledgments  from  peo|)le 
who  believed  that  Sister  Teresa  had  helped  them. 
Some  of  these  favours  were  as  extraordinary  as  any 
of  the  miracles  recorded  at  Lourdes,  and  were  as  well 
supported  by  scientific  testimony.  Others,  of  course, 
were  unprovable,  and  many  were  slight  and  possibly 
negligible  things;  but  they  all  afforded  abundant  tes- 
timony to  the  tremendous  extent  to  which  tens  of 
thousands  of  people  believed  that  their  invisible 
friend  was  helping  them  from  the  unseen,  supernatu- 
ral world — from  a  "heaven"  of  happiness  which  she 
had  gained  by  following  the  teachings  and  the  counsels 
of  Jesus  Christ  in  His  Church  on  earth. 

I  was  very  much  interested  in  all  this,  but  as  my 
friend  had  not  read  the  book  himself,  only  heard 
about  it,  he  could  not  tell  me  some  of  the  things  I 
was  most  anxious  to  know;  yet  I  very  clearly  remem- 
ber the  unique  sort  of  impression  which  the  episode 
made  upon  me  .  .  .  Sister  Teresa!  .  .  .  the  very 
name  held  something  ineffably  attractive.  It  was  like 
the  sort  of  presage  which  you  feel  at  times  when  you 
pick  up  a  new  book,  a  glance  at  which  assures  you  of  a 
new  devotion  in  your  literary  life,  but  which  at  the 
time  you  cannot,  or  do  not,  read  at  once  .  .  .  but 
which  you  come  to  later  on  with  a  gusto  of  apprecia- 
tion. 

2.  The  Bishop 

It  was  months  later,  when  all  remembrance  of  Sis- 
ter Teresa  had  passed  from  conscious  thought,  that  I 
heard  the  name  again.  Once  more  I  was  in  company 
with  Redfem  Mason;  but  now  it  was  in  the  city,  in 


276  The  High  Romance 

San  Francisco.  He  had  taken  me  to  call  upon  a 
friend  who  hailed  from  the  same  city  in  the  East 
where  he  had  lived  before  coming  to  California. 
This  friend  was  a  Bishop  of  the  Catholic  Church,  and 
I  felt  very  interested,  curious,  rather,  in  the  prospect 
of  coming  into  contact,  unofl&cially,  away  from  a 
church,  with  a  Catholic  prelate. 

The  occasion  was  quite  exciting.  I  do  not  know 
just  what  I  expected ;  but  my  thoughts  pictured  vested 
figures,  and  pomp  and  ceremony. 

I  entered,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  office  of  a  man 
who  impressed  me  as  many  a  first-rank  captain  of 
industry  or  leader  in  one  of  the  professions  had  im- 
pressed me  in  my  reportorial  days,  when  I  interviewed 
them  by  the  hundred.  In  short,  he  was  an  efficient, 
practical,  wide-awake  personage,  with  obvious  power, 
a  strong  personality.  He  sat  at  a  roll-top  desk,  in 
an  office,  working  at  the  business  of  his  diocese.  He 
wore  no  robes  ...  no  lace  .  .  .  nothing  ecclesi- 
astical, save,  of  course,  the  Roman  collar  and  the 
pectoral  cross — though  that  was  tucked  out  of  the 
way  as  he  worked — and  the  ring  which  my  friend 
kissed  as  he  entered  the  room.  I  think  I  was  disap- 
pointed .  .  .  yes,  I  am  sure  I  was.  I  think  that 
the  plain  evidences  before  me  that  a  Catholic  Bishop 
could  be  a  practical,  keen,  administrator  of  business 
affairs,  up-to-date,  and  just  like  any  other  big  Amer- 
ican leader  of  men,  blew  rather  coldly  upon  my  in- 
nate romanticism.  I  would  have  preferred  a  Bishop 
more  in  keeping  with  a  dramatic  idea  of  a  Bishop, 
conceived  by  a  mind  still  densely  ignorant  of  Cathol- 
icism. 

As  for  the  talk  that  followed,  I  won't  go  into  it 


Sister  Teresa  277 

deeply.  The  Bishop,  it  struck  me,  did  not  seem  in- 
clined for  abstract  or  theoretical  discussion;  he  was 
warmly  and  humanly  interested  in  meeting  his  friend, 
the  Englishman,  and  in  talking  about  mutual  acquaint- 
ances, and  discussing  books,  and  writers.  But  my 
friend  was  bound  to  get  me  into  the  talk;  I  could  see 
that,  and  with  an  Englishman's  stubborn  persistence 
he  succeeded. 

And  with  that  ready  command  of  the  powers  of 
attention  which  is  a  mark  of  men  who  know  how 
to  lead  other  men  and  who  possess  great  executive 
ability,  the  Bishop  gave  up  chatting  about  friends, 
and  books,  and  spoke  with  me  about  my  studies  in 
mysticism.  But  anything  less  "mystical,"  in  the 
usual  sense  in  which  people  mistakingly  confuse  the 
mystical  with  the  mysterious  and  with  the  "super- 
stitional" — if  I  may  coin  a  word — than  this  occasion, 
could  hardly  be  supposed.  And  yet,  it  was  truly 
mystical.  Indeed,  the  moment  had  come  when  some- 
thing was  to  happen,  something  of  great  importance. 

The  Bishop  looked  at  me  more  attentively,  and 
asked  a  few  questions.  He  is  not  one  of  those  men 
who  take  a  long  time  to  understand  a  situation;  his 
apprehensions  are  swift  and  sure.  He  is  also 
most  frank  and  simple;  and  makes  others  simple  also 
in  their  response  to  him.  He  soon  was  in  possession 
of  the  essential  facts  of  my  case,  that  is,  its  spiritual 
facts.  And  then  when  we  came  to  the  subject  of 
mystical  literature  he  broke  in  with  precisely  what 
my  friend  had  said  in  Monterey. 

"Why  don't  you  read  some  of  the  modem  cases  of 
the  real  mystical  life?"  he  asked.  "The  modem 
fads  and  cults  do  not  have  a  monopoly  of  the  subject. 


278  The  High  Romance 

you  know.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  will  do  for  you,  some 
day;  I'll  take  you  to  see  the  Prioress  of  our  Carmelite 
monastery,  where  the  mystical  life  is  cultivated  by 
experts,  as  it  has  been  from  time  immemorial.  She 
will  take  an  interest  in  you  because  of  your  interest 
in  this  subject,  I  am  sure." 

"There  is  a  Carmelite  monastery  in  San  Fran- 
cisco?" I  said,  surprised.  Two  of  the  mystical  au- 
thors whom  I  had  read  (very  partially,  and  mostly  at 
second-hand,  through  quotations  and  in  articles  about 
them  rather  than  in  their  own  works)  were  Saint 
Teresa  and  Saint  John  of  the  Cross.  I  knew  that  the 
Carmelite  Order  had  been  one  of  the  great  centres 
for  the  mystical  experiment;  but  to  hear  that  it  was 
at  work  in  San  Francisco,  in  my  own  city  (for  I 
have  come  to  consider  San  Francisco  my  own),  this 
indeed  strangely  surprised  me.  That  there  were  peo- 
ple who  even  today,  even  in  the  United  States  of 
America,  locked  themselves  up  for  life  in  a  monas- 
tery in  order  to  follow  the  life  of  prayer  and  mystic 
self-immolation,  somehow  or  other  gave  all  my  ideas 
an  unsettling  shock.  Mysticism  as  an  individual 
experiment,  unshackled  by  "dogmas"  and  ecclesias- 
tical restrictions  and  authority — mysticism  as  a 
modem  "movement,"  as  part  of  the  revolt  of  hu- 
manity against  all  the  restrictions  of  "dogmatic" 
and  "mediaeval  superstitions,"  as  part  of  the  new 
"spiritual  science,"  oh,  yes!  that  of  course  was  all 
right;  but  "orthodox"  mysticism,  a  mysticism  con- 
sidered simply  as  one  part  of  a  positive,  final,  author- 
itative religious  system,  no,  that  view  was  decidedly 
unacceptable. 

All  the  same,  however,  I  was  very  curious  and  in- 


Sister  Teresa  279 

terested.  I  very  much  wanted  to  see  the  Carmelite 
Prioress.  I  most  emphatically  accepted  the  invita- 
tion. 

And  the  Bishop  continued,  after  I  had  so  expressed 
myself: 

"I  think  you  would  be  interested  in  two  recent 
books  which  illustrate  the  practical  results  in  our  own 
day  of  Carmelite  mysticism.  They  will  show  you 
that  we  don't  regard  our  Saints  of  the  Middle  Ages 
— ^which  you  heretics  so  mistakenly  slander — as  the 
end  of  the  chapter  of  the  supernatural  in  the  Church." 

"I  would  be  very  glad  to  read  those  books,"  I  re- 
plied.    "Please  tell  me." 

"They  are  the  autobiographies  of  Sister  Teresa,  the 
Little  Flower,  and  of  Sister  Elizabeth,  of  the  Trinity, 
two  young  Carmelite  nuns  who  recently  died  in 
France." 

I  stared  at  the  Bishop,  who  smiled;  the  light  of  his 
kindly  interest  in  his  glowing  eyes. 

Sister  Teresa;  again  this  Sister  Teresa,  the  Car- 
melite! And  again  the  leap  of  a  strange  interior  in- 
terest. 

"Come  back  when  you  read  them  and  tell  me  what 
you  think  about  them,"  added  the  Bishop,  and  we 
arose  to  go. 

I  went  that  very  day  and  bought  the  two  books, 
and  read  them,  one  after  the  other  .  .  .  how  avidly, 
how  thirstily,  it  is  hard  indeed  to  describe. 


Once  upon  a  time,  when  I  was  a  boy,  I  went  to 
sea  with  my  father  in  a  sailing  ship  on  a  voyage 
among  the  West  Indian  isles.     We  were  caught  in  a 


280  The  High  Romance 

long  calm,  and  our  water  ran  low,  so  low  that  at 
last  we  were  reduced  to  a  very  small  amount,  and  by 
the  Captain's  order  were  forbidden  to  drink  more  than 
a  very  small  quantity  daily,  not  nearly  enough  to 
satisfy  our  thirst  in  that  tropical  place.  Then  one 
day  ihe  rain  came,  ah,  such  a  cool  and  sweet  and 
copious  rain.  We  loosened  the  ropes  of  the  poop- 
deck  awning,  and  in  the  awning  and  in  the  bags 
formed  by  lowering  the  sails,  we  caught  enough  water 
to  fill  all  our  casks  and  buckets.  And  we  drank  and 
drank  and  drank  our  fill. 

Well!  I  could  not  indeed  as  yet  drink  my  fill,  but 
my  spiritual  drought  was  broken  by  those  two  books, 
and  I  drank  and  drank  and  drank  out  of  my  reading 
and  re-reading  a  refreshment  and  a  satisfaction  never 
known  before. 


It  was  the  book  of  Sister  Teresa  which  especially 
moved  me.  Over  its  pages  I  did  what  no  other  book 
ever  caused  me  to  do  in  all  my  life  before,  nor  any 
play,  nor  any  work  of  even  the  highest  or  profoundest 
art — except,  one,  "The  Hound  of  Heaven" — I  wept. 
Again  and  again  a  blinding  rush  of  hot  and  stinging 
tears  blurred  my  sight  and  stopped  my  reading.  .  .  . 

The  other  book,  the  Sister  Elizabeth,  stirred  me 
not  so  strongly,  but  perhaps  even  more  deeply. 

The  two  books  are  before  me  now.  The  first  con- 
sists, first  of  a  prologue  giving  an  account  of  a  French 
family,  the  head  of  which  was  a  jeweller  named 
Martin,  the  son  of  an  army  officer.  Failing  in  his 
efforts  as  a  young  man  to  become  a  monk  of  St.  Ber- 
nard, he  married  a  young  woman,  Zelie  Guerin,  who 


Sister  Teresa  281 

had  also  failed  in  efforts  to  become  a  nun.  She 
prayed  that  she  might  become  the  mother  of  many 
children  all  of  whom  might  enter  religious  life. 
Nine  children  were  bom.  Four  died  in  infancy. 
The  other  five,  daughters  all,  became  nuns. 

The  youngest  of  these  was  Therese,  or  Teresa,  as 
she  is  perhaps  more  commonly  known  in  English- 
speaking  countries.  She  became  a  nun  at  the  age 
of  fifteen,  in  1888,  at  Liseux,  and  nine  years  later 
she  died,  September  30,  1897.  Shortly  before  her 
death,  at  the  command  of  her  Prioress,  she  wrote  her 
autobiography.  This  was  published  two  years  later. 
Edition  after  edition  was  exhausted.  Translations 
appeared  in  most  of  the  modem  languages. 

After  the  prologue,  there  is  the  autobiography 
itself,  eleven  short  chapters  in  all;  followed  by  re- 
ports of  her  sayings  and  counsels  and  a  sheaf  of  her 
letters,  poems,  and  prayers.  Then  comes'  the  account 
of  the  proceedings  set  on  foot  to  "beatify"  this  young 
nun,  that  is,  to  secure  the  official  pronouncement  of 
the  authorities  at  Rome  that  Sister  Teresa  is  entitled 
to  the  honours  of  sainthood  in  the  minor  degree 
known  as  "Beatification,"  which,  if  accorded,  may 
or  may  not  be  eventually  increased  to  the  full  honour 
of  being  pronounced  a  "Saint." 

There  are  further  sections  which  from  our 
modem  point  of  view  are  stranger  than  all  the 
others,  containing  many  accounts  well  documented  in 
most  instances,  of  "miracles"  which  have  taken  place 
since  the  death  of  Sister  Teresa.  There  are  cures  of 
diseases  (many  of  which  had  been  pronounced  incur- 
able by  medical  science),  like  malignant  cancer,  liver 
complaint  of  thirty-five  years'  standing,  tuberculosis, 


282  The  High  Romance 

cataract  on  the  eyes,  cerebral  uremia,  elephantiasis, 
hip  disease,  and  many  other  things.  There  are 
startling  instances  of  sudden  or  most  unexpected  "con- 
versions," sometimes  accompanied  by  apparitions  of 
the  dead  nun;  or  by  manifestations  of  her  presence 
in  the  form  of  inexplicable  perfumes.  There  are 
marvellous  stories  of  the  relief  of  desperate  cases  of 
want.  Many  thousands  of  letters  have  been  received 
at  the  Carmelite  monastery  in  Liseux  relating  and 
gratefully  acknowledging  all  manner  of  "favours" 
granted  by  the  Heavenly  power  through  the  inter- 
cession of  Sister  Teresa. 

The  other  book,  the  autobiography  of  Sister  Eliz- 
abeth, was  much  less  "sensational,"  but  told  a  some- 
what similar  story.  Its  writer,  Marie-Elizabeth 
Catez,  bom  at  Bourges  in  1880,  the  daughter  of  an 
army  officer,  and  moving  in  good  society,  entered  the 
Carmelite  monastery  at  Dijon  in  1901,  dying  five 
years  later.  Her  "life"  was  written  and  published 
in  1909,  rapidly  went  through  many  editions,  and  was 
spread  abroad  in  translations.  Fewer  and  less  re- 
markable "miracles"  or  favours  are  attributed  to  her 
power.  Her  book  and  her  life  invite  those  who 
understand  their  message  and  their  mission  to  follow 
this  great  soul  in  her  progress  upward  through  still, 
internal  regions  of  spiritual  life  where  remarkable 
"happenings"  have  little  effect  one  way  or  the  other 
upon  the  soul  which  knows  that  these  things  do  not 
matter  when  only  one  thing  matters,  which  is,  for  the 
soul  to  find  God  and  be  transformed  in  Him. 

Now,  while  I  was  still  under  the  strange  influence 
of  these  books,  I  called  again  to  see  the  Bishop,  and 


Sister  Teresa  283 

talked  them  over  with  him.  And  all  at  once,  looking 
at  me  with  eyes  full  of  laughter:  kindly,  sweet-tem- 
pered, loving  laughter — he  said  to  me:  "Do  you  know 
what's  the  matter  with  you?  It's  only  one  thing. 
The  Holy  Ghost  can't  get  into  a  soul  when  it  is  full 
of  that  which  is  not  holy.  You  need  to  go  to  confes- 
sion. That's  all.  You  need  to  go  to  confession. 
We  can  talk  about  'difficulties,'  intellectual  enigmas, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it,  and  we  won't  ever  get  very 
far;  though  surely  I'll  talk  with  you  about  such  things 
as  much  as  you  please.  But  if  you  clean  the  win- 
dows of  your  soul,  there  won't  be  any  difficulties. 
The  Holy  Ghost  will  answer  everything." 

—Well! 

I  think  even  then  that  I  knew  he  was  right.  But 
I  got  away  from  the  subject  and  from  the  Bishop — 
as  soon  as  I  could.  I  was  stricken  in  the  most  vulner- 
able point  of  my  armour  of  egoism. 

— Confession!  To  plunge  my  memory  into  the 
darkness  and  the  foulness  of  my  life,  and  expose  all 
that  to  somebody  else?  .  .  .  No.  No.  NO.  .  .  . 
Impossible.  .  .  . 

Yet,  as  I  turned  to  the  two  books  again  the  thought 
would  not  let  me  go:  the  thought  of  what  the  Bishop 
had  said.  The  Holy  Spirit  would  not,  could  not  enter 
my  soul,  because  it  was  not  fit  for  Him. 

How  different  in  the  case  of  the  two  Carmelite  nuns. 
They,  like  me,  were  writers,  that  is,  they  both  pos- 
sessed a  certain  measure  of  ability  to  express  them- 
selves in  literature.  They,  too,  believed  as  I  believed 
that  something  could  be  done  through  written  words  to 
effect  what  they  held  to  be  good. 


284  The  High  Romance 

Yes,  but  they  first  of  all  lived  the  words  they 
wrote. 

They  were  not  to  be  judged  merely  by  what  they 
said  or  wrote,  but  by  what  they  were,  and  what  they 
had  become,  by  willing  it  so.  And,  therefore,  these 
two  simple,  young,  innocent,  worldly-ignorant  girls 
had  taken  a  course  the  exact  opposite  to  that  which 
I  and  most  of  the  other  modem  writers  and  seekers 
after  happiness  pursue.  We  seek  multiplicity  and 
variety  of  sensuous  experiences.  They  withdrew 
from  them  as  completely  as  they  could.  We  seek 
after  the  widest  and  most  complete  publicity  for  our 
opinions  and  our  actions  (save  those  things  which 
in  the  present  "bourgeois"  and  "conventional"  state 
of  society  we  do  not  as  yet  dare  to  make  public). 
They  withdrew  from  the  already  limited  and  re- 
stricted sphere  of  the  young  French  woman  and  went 
into  monasteries  for  ever.  None  save  their  own 
families  or  their  associates  ever  even  saw  them  again. 
There,  in  quiet  and  silence,  they  prayed  and  wrought 
without  ceasing  to  become  conscious  and  ever  more 
conscious  of  God,  to  make  themselves  ever  less  and 
less  that  God  might  be  more  and  more;  and,  after 
a  few  short  years,  they  died  and  were  buried  in 
their  obscure,  monastery  burial  grounds. 

And  now  the  whole  world  feels  their  power. 
From  their  quiet  graves  they  move  great  men  and 
shape  the  destinies  of  millions  of  souls.  For  now, 
men  and  women  who  teach,  who  preach,  who  write 
books,  who  study  science,  who  lead  armies,  who 
paint  pictures,  who  make  dramas,  who  give  them- 
selves up  to  be  missionaries,  or  who  labour  in  thou- 
sands of  humbler  yet  none  the  less  necessary  and 


Sister  Teresa  285 

essential  tasks,  feel  and  acknowledge  the  power 
gained  by  the  two  young  nuns  who  lived  and  died 
a  few  brief  years  ago  in  France.  Whether  that 
power  is  communicated  simply  through  their  own 
writings  or  the  multiplying  mass  of  things  written 
around  or  because  of  their  books  or  lives,  or  whether 
in  all  verity  that  power  manifests  more  directly  and 
immediately  in  spiritual  communications,  in  prayer 
and  miracle,  one  thing  is  indeed  most  obviously  true, 
namely,  that  no  mere  "artist"  or  "intellectual  liber- 
ator" of  our  day  wields  such  tremendous  practical 
power  as  that  exerted  by  Sister  Teresa  or  Sister 
Elizabeth. 

Now,  I  asked  myself,  what  is  this  power? 

— As  the  fantastic  end  of  all  the  fantasies  of 
my  life,  am  I  come  to  the  point  where  I  think  that  to 
shut  one's  self  up  in  a  monastery  and  pray  from  dawn 
to  midnight  is  the  answer  to  the  riddle  of  existence? 

No.  I  did  not  think  that.  But  what  I  did  think 
concerning  the  nature  of  the  power  wielded  by  those 
who  live  such  a  life  (and  live  it  successfully,  for 
there  can  be  failure  and  disaster  in  that  life  as  in  all 
other  forms  of  this  adventurous  and  most  perilous 
existence),  was  made  plain  to  me  when,  shortly  after 
my  last  talk  with  the  Bishop,  I  went  to  the  Carmelite 
monastery  to  see  the  Prioress,  as  the  Bishop  had 
advised. 

But  I  did  not  go  with  the  Bishop.  I  rather  avoided 
him,  I'm  afraid,  after  his  probing  lance  of  a  re- 
mark concerning  confession.  That  remark  had  in- 
deed proven  a  veritable  surgical  stroke.  It  plunged 
into  a  secret  yet  obtrusive  tumour  in  my  soul.  I 
knew  it  was  there,  as  many  a  cowardly  person  knows 


286  The  High  Romance 

they  have  some  obscure  and  alarming  physical  afflic- 
tion but  will  not  face  the  fact,  diagnose  the  condition, 
and  submit  to  a  dreadful  yet  absolutely  essential 
operation.  Yes,  the  Bishop's  remark  plunged  into 
that  tumour,  and  cut  it  open,  but  did  not  eliminate 
it,  simply  caused  it  to  bleed  and  to  drain  forth  the 
evil  emanations  of  its  corruption  and  its  deadly 
nature. 

3.  Sin 

This  aching  tumour  was  my  newly  awakened  and 
ever-growing  consciousness  of  the  pressure  of  moral 
guilt  upon  my  soul.  Yet  I  had  long  ago  decided  that 
morality  was  a  purely  relative  thing.  Why,  then, 
was  I  suffering  so? 

I  tried  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  my  confused  and 
wavering  mental  condition,  and,  so  far  as  I  can  ex- 
press the  result  of  my  effort,  it  might  be  summarized 
as  follows: 

First,  I  am  positive  in  my  belief  that  I  exist,  a 
separate,  self-conscious,  unique  individual. 

I  did  not  create  myself.  That  is  beyond  all  ques- 
tion true. 

Moreover,  it  is  for  me  unthinkable  that  I  am  the 
fortuitous  result  of  accidental  material  forces, 
chemical  or  mechanical. 

Therefore,  I  must  accept  the  belief  that  I  was 
created.  A  force  not  in  any  way  dependent  upon 
myself  or  the  world  of  matter  in  which  I  am  living, 
created  me,  and  created  the  world  of  matter  and  all 
other  things. 

Words  like  "Life-Force"  or  "Nature"  or  "Creative 


Sister  Teresa  287 

Principle"  do  not  fully  express  the  nature  of  this 
Creator. 

Pre-eminently  am  I  persuaded  of  the  Creator's 
Eternal  Personality. 

And  the  name  of  God  opens  up  for  me  marvellous 
and  unending  vistas  of  meaning. 

Hence,  I  must  believe  in  and  acknowledge  a  God, 
and  that  I  am  His  creature. 

Now,  if  God  gave  me  life,  He  and  no  other  force 
it  is  which  sustains  me  in  life,  and  He  of  course  can 
do  what  He  will  with  His  own.  At  any  moment,  then, 
He  may  take  my  life  away  from  me. 

But  this  applies  only  to  my  life  in  this  world: 
the  life  of  my  body;  not  the  life  of  my  soul;  for 
concerning  this  I  have  the  same  positive  belief  that 
I  have  in  the  existence  and  the  supreme  power  of 
Almighty  God.  My  soul  cannot  die.  I — the  true 
I — am  immortal. 

Now,  there  must  be  a  reason  for  everything.  If 
there  is  a  God,  and  if  He  made  me,  and  made  me 
in  essence  immortal,  and  if  I  find  myself  despite 
these  facts  living  as  a  mortal  human  being  who  must 
inevitably  die,  there  must  be  some  good  reason,  some 
truly  sufficing  explanation.  Also  there  must  be  some 
good  reason  for  the  fact  that  I,  like  most  other  human 
beings  (in  a  greater  measure  than  some,  and  in  a 
lesser  measure  than  the  greater  number),  live  a  life 
of  sickness  and  suffering  and  pain  and  trouble  and 
disappointment.  There  must  be  some  good  reason 
for  the  frightful  misery  and  degradation  of  the 
world  of  men  today.  And  there  must  be  some  good 
reason  for  the  fact  that  in  me  was  implanted  an 


268  The  High  Romance 

irresistible  urge  toward  artistic  creation  and  expres- 
sion, even  as  in  so  many  other  men  and  women. 

What  then,  was  the  reason  for  all  these  perplexing 
things? 

Of  this,  at  least,  I  was  certain,  namely,  that  in- 
deed the  reason  was  and  only  could  be,  Good. 

If  there  was  a  God — and  there  is  a  God — it  fol- 
lowed that  He  must  be  Good. 

Only  in  a  state  of  madness  or  of  self-willed  Evil 
could  any  one  seriously  believe  that  the  ultimate 
nature  of  the  ultimate  Reality  could  be  anything  else 
than  perfect  Good. 

God,  therefore,  could  not  contradict  Himself.  He 
could  not  cause  that  which  was  evil.  All  that  was 
truly  good  must  necessarily  be  due  to  His  power 
or  permission.  Impossible  for  a  sane  soul  even  to 
dream  that  God  could  cause  evil  or  will  that  which 
was  bad  or  injurious  to  His  creatures!  Hence,  if 
we  suffered — and  if  all  the  world  suffered — and  if 
our  lives  were  maimed  and  crippled  and  repressed- — 
and  if  indeed  the  best  possible  human  life  was  a 
poor  and  limited  thing  compared  to  what  the  life 
of  the  soul  could  be — ^then  there  were  only  two  pos- 
sible solutions  of  such  a  mystery. 

The  first  was  that  something  had  happened  some- 
how,  somewhere,  to  man:  something  for  which  man 
was  absolutely  responsible,  and  the  consequences  of 
which  were  disease  and  pain  and  death — conse- 
quences in  which  all  human  beings  shared,  even  as 
they  shared  the  responsibility  for  that  something  in 
which  man  had  failed  or  transgressed. 

The  second,  more  partial  answer  was,  that  if  God 
was  good — and  He  is — and  we  nevertheless  were 


Sister  Teresa  289 

troubled  by  sorrow  and  pain  and  death,  then  it  must 
be  that  much  of  all  this  woe  and  darkness  was  not 
evil  at  all  but  in  reality  good. 

In  short,  it  was  clear  that  there  could  be  no  evil 
whatsoever  save  one  thing  only,  which  evil  thing  was 
to  repeat  in  any  form  or  degree  the  thing  which  had 
first  caused  all  our  woe  and  loss,  which  thing,  no 
matter  what  form  it  may  have  assumed,  could  in  its 
essential  nature  have  been  one  thing  only,  namely, 
Disobedience  to  God.  .  .  . 

In  a  word,  it  must  be  Sin. 

Thus,  without  theological  training,  reading,  or  in- 
struction, I  arrived  at  the  full,  free  acceptance  of  the 
dogma  of  Original  Sin. 

And  by  its  light,  I  could  see  what  a  poor,  blunder- 
ing, blinded,  mistaken  fool  I  had  been,  and  what 
millions  of  words  I  had  wasted  or  misused  in  com- 
plaining about  my  bad  luck,  and  the  wretched  con- 
ditions of  the  world  which  so  hampered  my  mission 
to  lead  and  mould  my  fellow  men! 

What  stupidity!     What  vain  arrogance! 

For  that  which  was  really  bad,  truly  evil,  in  my 
life,  I  alone  was  responsible,  through  my  disobedience 
to  God. 

Sin  explained  all  that  was  evil  in  my  life. 

And  all  other  matters:  trouble,  pain,  hardships, 
which  could  not  be  traced  back  to  wilful  trans- 
gressions against  what  I  knew  to  be  good,  were,  of 
course,  not  essentially  evil  but  in  themselves  op- 
portunities for  good  .  .  .  they  were  disciplinary; 
they  were  purgative;  they  were  illuminative;  they 
could  indeed,  if  I  but  truly  willed  it  so,  and  God 
consented,  be  the  means  that  finally  would  unite  me 


290  The  High  Romance 

to  the  will  of  God.  .  .  .  My  will  freely  and  joyfully 
saying:     Thy  will  be  done! 

4.  The  Coming  of  the  Comforter 

So  do  my  thoughts  now  arrange  the  sequence  of 
the  progress  of  my  soul.  .  .  . 

But  (I  thank  God  again  and  again)  He  did  not 
permit  me  to  rest  content  with  mental  searchings  and 
mental  conviction  and  statement. 

I  tried  indeed  to  have  it  so.  I  tried  to  fill  up  the 
void  in  my  soul  with  reading  and  with  dreams.  I 
devoured  "mystical"  books  without  cessation — but 
nothing  could  keep  back  the  flood  that  was  coming; 
nothing  could  avert  the  necessity  of  looking  into  the 
depths  of  my  own  soul,  and  of  then  turning  to 
God.  .  .  .  Who  is  the  Judge:  but  Who  is  also  the 
Good  Physician;  the  eternal  Comforter.  .  .  . 
•  *  •  •  •  •  • 

And  now  I  entered  a  most  dark  valley,  through 
which  I  journeyed  in  strange  pain  and  desolation, 
before  I  came  at  last  to  find  footing  upon  the  lower- 
most slope  of  Mount  Carmel,  and  saw  far  above  and 
beyond  me  the  white  lightnings  of  the  eternal  sun- 
shine gleam  for  a  moment  upon  the  far  invitation  of 
glorious  upland  vineyards,  and  the  peaks  that 
touched  the  shimmering  garments  of  the  adoring 
stars.  .  .  . 

— But  how  may  I  describe  the  valley  of  pain 
through  which  I  journeyed? 

How  may  I  lift  the  veil  upon  the  days  and  nights 
of  anguish  so  piercing  yet  so  welcome,  so  singularly 
bitter-sweet,  in  which  I  came  to  see  myself  not  as 


Sister  Teresa  291 

the  proud  master  of  life,  or  the  unfortunate  victim 
of  society — but  as  the  stained  and  wounded  wanderer 
from  my  Father's  House?  ... 

•  •••••• 

— Suffice  it  to  say  that  as  in  all  its  revealing 
light  and  purgative  power,  this  conviction  came,  pain 
and  sorrow  swept  over  me,  and  grew;  and,  though 
at  first  I  knew  it  not,  the  Comforter  also  drew  near, 
and  nearer. 

For  there  came  a  day  when  I  became  conscious 
that  there  was  a  Presence  in  the  world;  a  Personality 
vast  enough  to  fill  all  the  world,  and  yet  also  dwelling 
in  my  heart;  and  little  by  little,  gently  and  per- 
suasively, yet  irresistibly,  the  Name  of  the  Presence 
was  made  known  to  me;  the  Name  above  all  other 
names;  the  Name  of  Christ. 

Yes,  it  was  Christ  who  sought  me  out, — 0  mystery 
of  ineffable  condescension! — 

Nor  would  He  let  me  alone;  this  Christ  Who  be- 
came Man  so  that  men  might  become  partakers  of 
God ;  and,  once  I  had  recognized  Who  it  was  Who  had 
come,  the  rest  of  my  journey  was  not  long. 

So  silent  and  still  and  secret  was  His  approach 
to  my  soul  that  it  is  impossible  for  me  now  to  say 
when  and  where  He  just  appeared. 

I  became  aware  of  Him  as  One  Who  could  not  be 
left  out  of  the  accounting  by  any  (at  least)  of  those 
who  studied  mysticism  even  superficially. 

The  true  mysticism  exalted  Him  as  God. 

The  false  or  mistaken  or  groping  forms  of 
mysticism  all  claimed  Him  either  as  supreme  example 
of  man's  ability  to  unite  with  the  divine,  or  as  chief 


292  The  High  Romance 

among  mystical  "masters"  or  "adepts"  or  "prophets." 

To  be  sure,  1  did  not  in  those  days  distinguish 
between  that  which  was  the  true  mysticism  and  that 
which  was  false  or  partial  or  mistaken  or  merely 
groping  in  a  mist. 

How  could  I,  lacking  the  true  criterion? 

But  there  was  something,  I  think,  in  my  artistic 
sense,  which  helped  me  to  find  my  way  through  the 
dubious  places  in  which  so  often  I  wandered.  There 
was  so  much  sheer  nonsense  in  so  much  of  this  stuff; 
there  was  so  much  bad  taste,  and  shoddy  and  pinch- 
beck craftsmanship  in  the  literary  handling  of  the 
material! 

On  the  other  hand,  the  more  the  writer  approached 
the  true  Centre  of  his  subject,  the  better  his  handling 
of  it  became;  not  necessarily  in  the  mere  technical 
part,  but  in  his  ability  (or  perhaps  it  is  better  to  say, 
in  the  gift  granted  him)  to  let  the  Light  and  Life  shine 
through,  making  his  matter  to  glow  and  grow  warm 
and  pulsatory  with  the  presence  of  Love. 

I  do  not  refer  to  the  poets  or  artists  who  attempt 
mystical  subjects;  whose  intuitions,  or  sympathies 
with  mystical  truths,  incline  them  to  express  such 
high  matters  as  Francis  Thompson  (for  example) 
touches  upon  in  his  Hound  of  Heaven.  No;  for 
even  at  its  highest  and  greatest,  all  literary  or  other 
artistic  expression  of  mystical  matters  lacks  force, 
the  effective,  real  force,  which  is  possessed  by  the 
much  less  beautiful  or  exalted  expressions  of  those 
who  have  gained  the  doctrine  by  living  the  life, 

— For  the  secret  of  power,  I  recognized,  consisted 
in  personal  action. 


Sister  Teresa  293 

The  most  beautiful  artistic  expression  of  a  truth 
had  no  such  energy  as  the  doing  or  living  of  the 
truth. 

Therefore,  the  words  of  Christ  have  transcendent 
and  unapproachable  power  because  He  was  His 
words;  He  lived  them;  His  life  was  in  them,  and 
remains  in  them  for  ever.  ...  "I  am  the  Way; 
the  Truth;  the  Life,"  He  says,  not,  "I  write  a  book 
about  the  way."  And  the  words  of  those  who  do 
not  live,  because  they  do  not  Will,  what  they  say,  are 
without  real  power. 

Now,  those  who  actively  and  consciously  will  that 
which  is  evil  are  few  indeed — although  such  per- 
verted souls  there  have  been  and  there  are  today, 
especially  in  the  region  of  the  false  mysticism — 
but  the  harm  they  do  is  frightful.  They  are  priests 
of  the  Anti-Church,  ministers  of  the  Spirit  of  Denial. 
And  they  are  served  in  turn  by  a  host  of  followers, 
mystagogues,  charlatans  and  deceivers,  many  of 
whom  are  great  artists,  and  the  leaders  of  in- 
tellectual modernity  and  of  Godless  science. 

They  are  those  who  would  identify  themselves  with 
divinity  and  throw  down  all  final  distinctions  between 
good  and  evil. 

They  are  the  evangels  of  the  New  Paganism. 

The  soul-hunger  of  humanity  must  find  food;  and 
if  the  true  food,  the  Living  Bread,  is  kept  from 
humanity  it  will  turn  perforce  to  the  strange  foods 
of  idolatry. 

— But  the  Grace  of  God — ^there  is  no  other 
explanation — preserved  me  from  the  dangers  amid 
which  I  adventured.     More  and  more  in  my  reading 


294  The  High  Romance 

I  turned  from  the  false  lights  of  fantasy  toward  the 
fixed  stars  and  the  everlasting  Sun.  That  is,  I  turned 
more  and  more  from  Blake,  and  Swedenborg,  and 
Maeterlinck  and  Yeats,  and  Whitman,  and  Nietzsche, 
and  Wells,  and  William  James,  and  Vedanta,  and 
New  Thought,  and  Spiritualism,  and  Mystic 
Masonry,  and  Mental  Science,  and  the  swarming  con- 
fusion of  egotistical  and  idolatrous  voices  and  cults 
and  movements  of  the  day,  and  more  and  more  I 
turned  toward  poets  like  Grashaw  and  Traheme  and 
Herbert  and  Thompson,  and  writers — especially  these 
latter — who  had  lived  the  life  of  devotion,  the 
Christian  Catholic  mystics:  Saint  Teresa,  and  John 
of  the  Cross,  and  many,  many  others. 

— Too  many  others,  in  fact.  Also  too  many 
writers  who  were  not  mystics  but  who  wrote  about 
mysticism.  I  read  too  much,  and  prayed  too  little; 
though  I  had  indeed  at  last  began  consciously  to  pray, 
petitioning  (vaguely  at  first)  the  Power  above  all 
other  powers,  the  One  Supreme  and  Central  Light, 
for  help  and  light  and  strength.  And  by  and  by 
my  prayers  became  more  definite,  and  (thanks  be  to 
Him)  at  last  I  turned  to  Christ  in  my  prayers.  .  .  , 

— But,  just  the  same,  my  life  was  almost  as 
confused,  nearly  as  whirling  and  as  unfixed  in  prin- 
ciple, as  before.  My  soul  was  glutted  with  reading; 
gorged  and  stuffed  with  mystical  books;  but  it  had 
assimilated  little  or  nothing;  it  was  in  the  throes  of 
a  spiritual  dyspepsia. 

Only  the  fact  that  I  had  formed  a  habit  of  prayer, 
and  that  my  will  was  turned  in  part  toward  its 
Object,    saved   me,    I   feel   sure,   from   succumbing 


Sister  Teresa  295 

to  a  fixed  fantasy  of  the  spirit,  a  kind  of  mad 
pantheism  in  which  Christ  and  His  Holy  Church 
would  have  been  merely  part  and  parcel  of  a  system 
including  all  the  gods  and  idols,  all  the  masquerading 
spirits  of  the  abyss,  all  the  welter  of  modem  fads 
and  follies,  vanities  and  insanities,  the  ecstasies  of 
evil,  and  the  vertigoes  of  vice. 

And  ever  more  and  ever  more  the  pressure  of  the  in- 
ward conviction  of  sin  increased.  There  grew  upon 
me  a  never-lifting  distress.  I  could  not  turn  away 
from  my  as  yet  undeclared  yet  positive  knowledge 
that  all  my  life  I  had  been  doing  wrong,  and  that  to 
commit  wrong  wilfully  was  in  very  truth  the  only 
absolutely  evil  thing  in  all  the  world. 

Confess  it,  then!  Confess  the  fact,  my  soul  tried, 
and  tried  again  and  again,  to  tell  me.  I  stifled  the 
voice.  But  the  voice  would  not  let  me  be.  I  plunged 
into  work,  into  reading,  into  dissipation;  but  I  could 
not  forget;  I  could  not  escape. 

Well,  I  said  to  myself,  at  least  it  can  do  no  harm 
to  see  this  Prioress.  Probably  I  will  find  that  she 
does  not  share  the  rather  old-fashioned  and  "supersti- 
tional"  views  of  the  Bishop. 

As  for  me,  of  course,  I  cannot  accept  the  formal 
authority  and  creeds  and  dogmas  of  any  church; 
least  of  all  this  outworn  Catholic  Church,  with  its 
notorious  tyranny  over  the  mind  and  the  soul.  It 
locks  up  individual  liberty  with  that  boasted  key  of 
Peter;  it  is  a  huge  machine  that  may  be  suitable 
for  the  multitude,  but  not  for  thinkers  or  for 
artists. 


296  The  High  Romance 

— For  I  was  now  ready  to  acknowledge  the  neces- 
sity for  a  religion  that  will  teach  morality  and 
keep  the  people  in  touch  with  supernatural  life. 
Poetry  and  literature  and  all  the  arts,  and  life  it- 
self, lose  colour,  vitality,  and  beauty  when  people 
cease  to  believe  in  the  Supernatural.  A  purely  natu- 
ral scheme  of  things  is  bound  inevitably  to  issue  in 
miserable  mediocrity  in  art  and  literature  and  social 
systems.  And,  no  doubt,  popular  religious  govern- 
ment requires  a  mechanism  for  its  operation,  just  as 
popular  political  government  does.  As  we  progress 
more  and  more  toward  the  future  stature  of  the  race, 
the  necessity  for  the  mechanisms  will  cease;  the  per- 
fected individual  will  require  no  other  authority  than 
his  own  will  in  all  his  works  and  ways;  his  will  no 
evil  working  because  it  will  be  good.  .  .  .  But  that 
time  is  far  distant  from  us  now;  that  at  least  is  a  fact 
there  can  be  no  disputing  save  by  utterly  impracticable 
idealists,  or,  rather,  impossibilists.  Government  is 
necessary,  man  being  as  he  is;  and  authoritative  re- 
ligion as  well.  But,  of  course,  there  are  circles  within 
circles,  and  the  restraints  and  the  rules  requisite  for 
the  great  crowd  do  not  apply  to  the  superior  souls  of 
today  who  are  examples  of  what  all  will  be  in  the 
future  and  where,  if  not  among  the  artists,  will  these 
emancipated  spirits  be  found?  Yes,  I  concluded, 
although  religious  systems  are  useless  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  still,  it  will  be  interesting  to  study  this 
quaint  survival  of  mediaevalism,  and  some  day  I  will 
go  to  this  Carmelite  monastery.  .  .  . 

But,  at  last,  when  indeed  I  did  go,  it  was  not  be- 
cause of  the  reasoning  given  above.  It  was  because 
of  my  hunger  and  my  thirst,  because  of  my  in- 


Sister  Teresa  297 

cessant  craving  for  spiritual  food  and  drink.  The 
debates  and  the  enquiries  of  my  mind  settled  nothing, 
and  discovered  nothing.  It  was  my  secret  soul  that 
was  urging  me  forward.  It  was  my  soul  that  could 
not  rest  content,  that  could  not  be  satisfied  until  it 
had  set  its  face  away  from  the  shadows  and  the  shams, 
the  false  gleams  and  all  the  illusions,  toward 
Reality. 


CHAPTER  Xni 

AT   THE   GATE    OF    MOUNT    CARMEL 

AND  SO  there  came  a  day  when  I  set  out  for  Mount 
Carmel. 

It  was  a  sombre  day.  It  was  a  day  of  misery. 
Things  had  happened — things  too  private  for  me  to 
reveal — things  which  had  most  bitterly  humiliated 
me,  and  shamed  me,  and  cast  me  down. 

Not  only  so,  but  in  upon  my  storm-tossed  mind  and 
soul  there  had  swept  a  flood  of  pain  and  deepest 
despondency,  a  flood  of  confused  introspection,  which 
like  some  powerful  solvent  extracted  bitter,  poisonous 
juice  out  of  a  mass  of  memories  writhing  and  seeth- 
ing in  the  alembic  of  my  heart,  and  forced  it  upon 
my  shuddering  soul  to  drink. 

All  my  misfortunes,  failures,  miserable  mistakes; 
my  frustrated  purposes;  my  mad  adventures  and 
excesses;  my  ruined  plans;  my  lost  work;  my  sickness 
and  disappointments  and  defeats — all,  all  were  there, 
commingling  their  acrid  emotions  and  sickening 
toxins  in  that  frightful  chalice  of  recollection. 

Such  was  the  quintessence  of  my  past. 

What  of  the  future?  The  future;  ah,  that  I  could 
not  face.  .  .  . 

I  walked  slowly  through  the  streets,  dragging  my 
nauseated  and  crippled  soul,  like  a  half-repentant 
suicide  dragging  himself  to  a  hospital  after  swallow- 
ing his  dose  of  poison,  forced  by  his  still  existing 

298 


At  the  Gate  of  Mount  Carmel       299 

will-to-live,  but  wavering  in  spirit  on  the  verge  of 
that  abyss  where  the  will  dies  and  the  soul  seeks 
destruction  as  a  falling  stone  seeks  the  earth.  .  .  . 

The  monastery  was  situated  in  the  house  where 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  widow  had  lived  after 
Stevenson's  death  in  Samoa,  a  house  in  which  the 
great  romancer,  I  am  sure,  would  have  delighted  to 
dwell.  It  was  perched  on  the  steep  side  of  Russian 
Hill,  overlooking  San  Francisco  Bay  toward  Mount 
Tamalpais,  with  Alcatraz  Island  lying  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  reminding  you  of  a  sympathetic  picture  for 
one  of  Stevenson's  own  stories — a  picture  drawn  by 
Maxfield  Parrish,  let  us  say.  And  this  fact  of  the 
monastery  being  in  a  house  so  closely  associated  with 
literature  possessed  for  me  I  know  not  what  half- 
serious,  half -fanciful  meaning.  I  had  failed  to  find 
that  which  I  was  searching  after  in  literature — or  in 
the  roving  and  adventurous  life  I  had  led  in  even 
more  pronounced  a  fashion,  perhaps,  than  R.  L.  S. 
himself.  Was  my  house  of  art,  my  quest  for  adven- 
ture, to  become  a  house  of  religion,  a  quest  after 
greater  adventures  than  those  of  the  open  road,  and 
the  ways  of  the  sea,  and  the  deserts  and  cities  of  this 
passing  world? 

But  on  the  afternoon  when  at  last  I  dragged  myself 
to  this  house,  these  thoughts  were  not  in  my  mind; 
literary  parallels  and  associations  did  not  interest  me. 
Nor  did  the  unusual  beauty  and  artistic  quality  of  the 
house  impress  me,  then,  as  later  it  most  strongly  did. 
I  was  far  too  bruised  and  sore  and  heavily  laden  to 
notice  the  superficial  aspects  of  my  adventure. 

Passing  up  a  short  flight  of  stairs  protected  by  an 
iron  railing  of  peculiar  beauty,  I  entered  the  door 


300  The  High  Romance 

where  a  sign  said:  "Enter  without  knocking,"  and 
found  myself  in  a  small  room  with  one  or  two  book- 
cases, and  a  bell-pull  hanging  against  the  wall.  I 
was  about  to  ring  the  bell  when  I  saw  a  slip  of  paper 
pinned  under  it  saying:  "Community  in  retreat:  do 
not  ring  the  bell.  Leave  messages  and  petitions  at  the 
turn." 

Retreat?  What  was  that?  And  "turn,"  what 
could  that  be?  I  did  not  know;  but  what  I  did  know 
was  that  my  usual  bad  luck  had  followed  me  to  the 
door  of  Mount  Carmel.  I  had  at  last  dragged  my- 
self there,  ready  to  knock — and  now  I  was  forbidden 
to  knock.  I  must  go  away.  Would  I  ever  try 
again?  It  was  most  unlikely.  A  mood,  a  day,  had 
come  in  which  I  had  experimented;  but  the  experiment 
had  failed;  I  would  go  away;  probably  not  to  try 
again.  .  .  . 

But  there  was  a  large  picture  of  Sister  Teresa  on 
the  dusky  wall  of  the  little  room.  And  in  the  book- 
cases were  a  number  of  booklets  concerning  her. 
There  was  a  copy  of  a  periodical  devoted  to  chron- 
icling the  "favours"  attributed  to  her  intercessory 
power.  I  stopped  to  look  these  over,  and  wished 
that  I  could  buy  some  of  them.  Then  I  thought: 
"I  have  come,  and  I  am  turned  away;  but  why  not 
leave  a  message?"  And  I  drew  a  sheaf  of  news- 
paper "copy"  paper  from  my  pockets,  and  a  pencil 
and  scribbled  a  few  words. 

"To  the  Mother  Prioress: 

"I  have  just  finished  reading,  at  the  recommenda- 
tion of  Bishop  Hanna,  the  books  concerning  'Sister 
Teresa;  The  Little  Flower  of  Jesus,'   and  'Sister 


At  the  Gate  of  Mount  Carmel       301 

Elizabeth:  The  Praise  of  Glory.'  I  am  a  writer, 
36  years  old,  married  with  two  children.  I  am  try- 
ing to  reach  Jesus  Christ.  I  am  a  great  sinner.  I 
was  bom  into  the  Church  but  have  fallen  away  during 
twenty  years. 

"Will  you  pray  for  my  conversion  to  Christ,  dear 
mother,  asking  Sisters  Elizabeth  and  Teresa  also  to 
pray  for  me?  Sister  Teresa  has  brought  about  many 
conversions.  Please  pray  that  she  may  intercede  for 
me.     Surely  God  will  grant  her  prayer." 

As  I  folded  the  scrap  of  paper,  all  at  once  in  the 
dark  doorway  that  led  to  the  interior,  a  nun  appeared, 
and  advanced  into  the  room  saying:  "Is  there  any- 
thing I  can  do  for  you?"  She  was  an  out-sister,  as 
I  learned  afterward.  I  said,  I  had  come  to  see  the 
Prioress,  if  it  were  possible.  "No;  the  community  is 
in  retreat,"  the  sister  said ;  "no  visitors  are  received." 
But  it  was  permissible  to  buy  books  and  these  were 
selected.  I  gave  a  coin  in  payment.  The  nun  said 
she  must  go  inside  for  change.  I  gave  her  the  note, 
then,  asking  her  if  she  would  deliver  it  to  the  Prioress. 
She  bowed,  and  withdrew. 

She  was  gone  for  quite  some  time,  and  when  she  re- 
turned, she  said  to  me:  "Reverend  Mother  says  if 
you  will  come  to  the  speak  room,  she  will  see  you. 
Please  come  this  way." 

I  followed  her  down  a  little  dark  passageway  into 
a  little  dark  room.  She  immediately  left  me  and* 
shut  the  door.  In  the  wall,  high  up,  a  barred  window 
admitted  a  dim  light.  There  was  a  crucifix  on  the 
wall,  a  picture  or  two,  a  holy  water  font.  Two  chairs 
stood  on  the  bare  floor  in  front  of  a  grating  that 
reached  from  the  ceiling  to  within  two  or  three  feet 


302  The  High  Romance 

from  the  floor.  Behind  this  grating,  some  two  feet 
distant,  was  another  grating,  covered  on  the  inside 
with  a  black  curtain.  And  save  for  the  passing  of  a 
cable  car  outside,  now  and  then,  there  was  no  sound 
to  break  a  silence  that  seemed  not  merely  to  be  brood- 
ing in  the  room,  like  a  presence,  but  which  also 
seemed  to  emanate  from  the  depths  of  the  atmosphere, 
like  a  power. 

Then  I  heard  a  voice:  a  clear-toned,  energetic 
woman's  voice  out  of  the  silence,  that  said : 

"Praised  be  Jesus  Christ!" 

Astonished,  I  said  nothing  in  reply.  What  could 
I  say?  This  Jesus  whom  I  had  denied  .  .  .  how 
could  I  praise  Him? 

Then  the  voice  went  on:  "Is  there  somebody  in 
the  room?" 

I  divined  that  the  speaker  was  behind  the  black 
curtain,  within  the  second  screen. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "yes,  Reverend  Mother." 

"Oh,  yes!  I  am  so  glad.  I  read  your  note.  We 
are  in  retreat,  you  know.  We  don't  receive  visitors 
while  we  are  in  retreat;  but  I  felt  I  must  make  an 
exception.     So  you  have  read  Sister  Teresa?" 

I  replied — I  know  not  what — but  soon  my  lips  were 
unsealed,  and  my  heart  and  soul,  as  well. 

Now  it  is  not  for  nothing,  on  the  contrary  there  are 
very  good  reasons,  why  there  are  veils  drawn  between 
those  who  live  in  Carmel  and  those  who  live  in  the 
world.  And  veils  of  reticence  are  no  less  essential, 
when  it  is  a  question  of  discussing  certain  matters 
concerning  the  soul.  I  must  draw  such  a  veil  be- 
tween my  readers  and  the  remainder  of  the  interview. 


At  the  Gate  of  Mount  Carmel       303 

What  I  said  and  what  was  said  to  me  must  remain 
unwritten. 

Only  this  I  feel  I  should  say,  namely,  that  I  was 
frank.  I  did  not  hang  back.  I  told  the  invisible 
listener  how  unhappy  I  was,  and  why,  and  how  I  had 
been  searching  after  God  in  strange  places,  and  how 
Sister  Teresa  had  led  me  to  this  place,  where  out  of 
the  surrounding  darkness  and  out  of  the  brooding 
depths  of  silence  and  mystery,  the  voice  had  spoken, 
which  said:     "Praised  be  Jesus  Christ!" 

By  and  by,  I  rose  to  go. 

"You  will  please  wait  for  a  minute,  while  1  give 
Sister  Gertrude  a  relic  of  Sister  Teresa  for  you," 
said  the  voice.  "And  the  prayers  will  begin  at  once. 
We  will  storm  Heaven  for  you.  And  you  will  come 
again?" 

"I  will." 

And  presently  I  was  out  in  the  street,  walking 
homewards,  the  little  packet  of  books  in  my  hand. 
The  out-sister  had  said  she  had  placed  the  relic  of 
Sister  Teresa  in  the  packet. 

The  sun  was  shining  as  I  went  along,  a  golden, 
reddish  sunshine  of  the  late  afternoon.  I  passed  a 
little  open  space  of  greenery,  a  hill-side  park,  walk- 
ing like  a  man  in  a  dream  for  whom,  as  the  dream 
slowly  fades,  the  distant  horizon  shines  like  silver, 
and  secret  stars  drop  down  the  sky,  slowly,  one  by 
one,  like  big  drops  of  violet  rain. 

And,  just  then,  as  I  walked  past  the  little  green 
hill,  feeling  as  if  the  golden-reddish  sunshine  were  in- 
side me  as  well  as  shining  all  about  me,  and  upon  me, 
there  fell  about  me  a  breath  from  Heaven.  ...     I 


304  The  High  Romance 

inhaled  a  potent,  penetrating  perfume,  stronger  and 
stranger  by  far  than  rich  and  subtle  incense,  simpler 
by  far  than  the  odour  of  yerba  buena  or  of  mint 
or  violets;  sweet,  most  rare,  and  wonderful. 

I  remember  how  I  lifted  the  bundle  of  books  to  my 
face,  thinking,  with  an  inward  smile:  "The  good 
nuns  are  women  still.  These  books  have  been  lying 
too  near  the  scent  bottle  or  the  powder  box."  But 
soon,  in  fact  almost  instantly,  the  perfume  was  gone. 
There  was  no  odour,  none  at  all,  emanating  from  the 
bundle  of  books. 

"Perhaps  it  was  a  whiff  from  some  flower  or  herb 
in  the  grass  of  the  little  park,"  and  then  I  thought 
no  more  about  it;  but  walked  on,  trying  to  retain  my 
strange  new  sense  of  the  other-world,  striving  not  to 
lose  it,  and  not  to  find  myself  back  again  in  the  grey 
and  chilly  world  outside  that  world  of  warmth  and 
light  and  gladness.  I  was  like  a  little  child  sent  away 
from  its  first  Christmas  or  birthday  party,  shutting 
its  eyes  to  see  again  the  shining  things,  and  to  hear 
the  music. 

Then  I  reached  the  door  of  my  apartment  house, 
down  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  and,  as  I  entered  it, 
all  at  once,  instantaneously  tbe  breath  from  Heaven 
breathed  once  more  upon  me.  ...  I  was  in  the 
midst  of  a  pulsation  of  perfume,  more  exotic  than 
the  richest  incense,  yet  simpler  and  more  familiar 
than  the  homeliest  scents  that  are  distilled  by  all 
sweet  flowers,  and  rare  and  wonderful. 

Whereupon,  I  remembered,  and  I  knew.  I  re- 
membered that  tlie  account  of  Sister  Teresa's  mani- 


At  the  Gate  of  Mount  Carmel       305 

festations  are  full  of  such  instances  of  psychic 
odours.  She  is  the  Little  Flower.  She  said  just  be- 
fore her  death:  "I  will  let  fall  a  shower  of  roses." 
After  her  death  she  came  back  to  earth  in  vision,  and 
said:  "I  will  make  the  shower  of  roses  a  torrent." 
She  asked  God,  before  she  died,  to  let  her  soul  stay 
till  time  is  over  near  the  earth  in  order  to  do  good 
for  poor  souls  in  this  world. 

And  at  my  feet,  even  at  mine,  at  the  feet  of  the 
stained,  broken,  wandering  writer,  she  had  thrown  a 
secret  rose:  a  mystical  rose,  the  rose  of  my  desire. 

— That  night  I  wrote  to  the  Prioress,  and  related 
the  incident,  saying,  as  I  have  said  above,  that  per- 
haps it  was  only  a  fancy,  or  an  illusion,  the  curious 
product  of  mental  and  spiritual  excitement;  but  that 
I  could  not  credit  any  such  explanation,  although  I 
knew  that  to  believe  such  a  wonderful  thing  could 
have  happened  to  me  was  perhaps  the  worst  form  of 
illusion  How  could  I  dare  to  believe  that  the  Lit- 
tle Flower  would  give  to  one  exiled  so  far  from  her 
purity  even  a  single  inhalation  of  her  fragrance  in 
Heaven? 

But  I  begged  the  Prioress  not  to  cease  praying  for 
me.  I  implored  her  r\ot  to  forget  her  promise  to 
beg  Sister  Teresa  to  pray  for  me.  I  begged  the 
prayers  of  the  community.  Frankly,  and  with  no 
reservation  of  pride,  I  stood  in  the  dust  at  the  door 
of  Carmel,  a  poor,  a  wretched,  a  suffering  beggar.  I 
wrote  the  letter  with  tears  streaming;  such  tears  as  I 
had  begun  to  know;  tears  that  burned  and  tore  me, 
yet  which  in  their  passing  left  me  lighter  and  stronger, 
and   more   determined   to  beg  harder  and  harder. 


306  The  High  Romance 

And  even  in  the  midst  of  all  this  disturbance,  of  this 
storm  in  my  soul,  my  poor  soul  tried  to  sing,  tried, 
as  ever  it  tries,  to  find  living  words  to  express  its 
desires.  Poor  were  those  words,  and  awkward  and 
harsh  the  sound  of  them;  but  I  remembered  that  on 
Mount  Carmel  there  have  always  been  poets.  Saint 
Teresa  and  John  of  the  Cross  were  great  writers, 
marvellous  poets,  as  well  as  seekers  after  sanctity. 
So  I  felt  that  my  beggar's  song  at  the  gate  of  Mount 
Carmel  would  he  understood,  despite  its  wounded 
rhythm.  They  who  were  on  the  mountain  would 
understand  that,  in  all  forms  possible,  I  was  begging 
my  way  along  the  road  of  my  quest — that  the  fol- 
lower of  the  high  romance  had  put  aside  some  of  his 
more  cumbrous  garments  of  egotism,  of  spiritual 
pride,  and  was  humbly  asking  for  help.  So  I  put  this 
in  my  letter: — 

TO  THE  CARMELITE  NUNS  OF  SAN 
FRANCISCO 

By  the  deep  wells  of  Love  they  stand 

In  God's  most  mystic  garden  close. 
A  crystal  cup  is  in  each  hand, 

Sealed  with  the  Cross  that  bears  the  Rose. 
And  when  my  thirsting  soul  did  pray 
For  waters  pure  of  life,  't  was  they 

Who  gave  one  little  drop — 
One  little  drop  of  love  and  light. 
Yet  sweet  widi  life,  and  charged  with  might. 

0  Mother,  Sisters,  pray  with  me 
That  never  may  my  thirsting  stop 
Until  my  soul  and  Christ  unite! 


At  the  Gate  of  Mount  Carmel       307 

Carmel  understood.     From  Carmel,  the  next  day, 
this  came  to  me: 

AN  ANSWER 

A  breath  from  Heaven  hath  thrilled  my  soul, 

And  earth  is  fading  fast  away. 
How  faint  the  floods  of  anguish  roll 

Upon  the  strand  of  yesterday! 
The  far  horizon  holds  for  me 
A  silver  line  of  life  to  be. 

A  breath  from  Heaven!  turn  not  in  scorn. 

Nor  say  such  gift  I  may  not  claim; 
A  Saint  was  in  one  moment  bom 

On  Calvary's  darkened  hill  of  shame. 
He  turned  to  Christ,  nor  turned  in  vain. 
To  Him  who  for  his  sake  was  slain. 


There,  soul  to  Soul  upon  the  Cross, 
There,  eye  to  Eye  in  tears,  in  love — 

0  Blessed  gain!     Earth  knows  no  loss 
Save  losing  Thee,  0  God  above! 

Thou  art  not  lost,  save  to  the  heart. 

That  will  not  in  Thy  love  have  part. 

A  breath  from  Heaven!     I  ask  no  more; 

One  breath  is  deathless  life  divine. 
The  fragrance  of  the  farther  shore 

Floats  o'er  this  seeking  soul  of  mine, 
To  bear  Thy  love,  0  Christ  to  me. 
Today  is  Paradise  with  Thee! 


308  The  High  Romance 

It  was  my  own  inward  conviction  expressed  for  me. 
Why  should  I  for  an  instant  let  my  doubts  obscure 
what  had  shone  for  me  in  such  clear  light? 

I  doubted  no  longer;  in  fact,  I  knew  I  had  not 
doubted  at  all;  I  had  only  tried  to  doubt.  Sister 
Teresa  had  cast  at  the  feet  of  the  poor  beggar  at  the 
gate  of  Carmel,  a  rose  of  Paradise. 

Now,  most  freely,  I  admit  that  there  are  natural 
explanations  of  this  occurrence. 

It  is  obvious  from  all  that  I  have  told  you  that 
there  is  much  of  the  fanciful  in  my  temperament.  I 
had  read  Sister  Teresa's  book  and  been  keenly  im- 
pressed by  it.  I  had  read  of  a  dozen  instances  of 
this  supposedly  supernatural  phenomenon  of  the  per- 
fume. Then  I  had  gone  through  a  strenuous 
psychological  experience.  I  was  in  the  midst  of  it, 
indeed,  when  the  perfumes  came.  What  wonder  if 
the  suggestions  implanted  by  my  brooding,  at  such  a 
favourable  time  for  suggestions,  had  resulted  in  my 
jangled  nerves  and  excited  imagination  conspiring  to 
cheat  my  senses? 

I  do  not  say  no.  Perhaps  this  is  the  explana- 
tion. .  .  Only,  you  see,  it  is  not  the  true  explana- 
tion. 

The  very  springs  and  sources  of  all  good  things, 
that  delight  us  here  upon  earth:  music  and  colour, 
and  harmonious  form,  and  fragrance,  and  all  beau- 
tiful things  whatsoever,  are  fixed,  not  in  time,  but  in 
the  region  of  the  eternal.  In  this  world,  all  such 
things  are  "real"  enough,  "objective"  enough,  most 


At  the  Gate  of  Mount  Carmel       309 

surely,  but  at  the  same  time  only  evanescent  symbols 
of  the  realities  at  which  they  hint.  In  that  sphere  to 
which  the  perfected  soul  attains,  the  deep  wells  of 
beauty  pour  forth  delights  and  ravishments  which 
the  keenest  of  sense-muffled,  sense-stained,  sense- 
dulled  joys  are  poor  indeed. 

Free  souls,  the  intimates  of  the  House  of  God,  the 
undaunted  sons  and  daughters  of  desire,  children 
of  the  liberty  of  God,  live  among  these  joys,  and  they 
control  the  forces  thereof,  and,  by  God's  consent- 
ing will,  the  miracles  of  His  Saints  are  the  operations 
of  these  forces  by  or  through  the  souls  of  the  just, 
for  the  purpose  of  furthering  the  work  of  God. 

The  "Saint":  the  man  or  woman  who  is  granted 
or  who  attains  on  earth  the  "sanctilication"  of  his  or 
her  soul:  that  is,  who  turns  from  all  perversions  of 
the  powers  and  the  proper  uses  of  the  soul — which 
has  only  one  end:  one  permanent  purpose,  namely, 
to  serve  and  glorify  the  Creator  and  be  in  fine  united 
to  Him — such  a  one  compared  to  ordinary  "good 
people,"  is  like  the  great  genius  among  commonplace, 
average  people. 

He  has  access  to  powers  which  are  impossible  to 
others.  He  does  at  a  stroke  what  others  could  not 
do  in  centuries  of  labour.  And,  surely,  his  mission 
is  also  comparable  to  that  of  the  artist:  it  is  to  re- 
veal the  hidden  joy  and  beauty  and  power  and  liberty 
to  which  the  soul  may  attain,  as  the  artist  reveals 
the  wonder  and  beauty  and  power  of  controlled  and 
harmonized  sound,  colour,  form  and  thought.  And 
these  things  when  they  are  worthy  and  true,  all  the 
achievements  and  aspirations  of  art,  are  shadows  and 


310  The  High  Romance 

signs,  evanescent  and  partial  at  their  very  best,  of 
the  higher  and  permanent  things;  they  are  forecasts 
of  the  joy  of  the  soul  when  it  is  united  to  God. 

Even  those  great  poets  and  artists  who  draw  the 
closest  to  the  truth  fall  far  below  the  plane  of  the 
saint. 

The  saint  is  the  most  necessary  and  the  most  practi- 
cal person  in  the  world.  To  fall  short  of  the  highest 
accomplishment,  namely,  the  attainment  of  immortal 
life  and  liberty  and  joy,  is  to  fail  absolutely,  no 
matter  what  measure  of  "success"  one  may  win  in 
any  temporal  and  impermanent  thing. 

Saints  are  the  masters  and  the  exemplars  at  once 
of  the  art,  the  science,  the  rule,  the  way,  the  truth, 
of  eternal  life. 

The  mystics  among  them  are  the  very  flowers  of 
the  flock,  and  are  of  all  the  most  necessary  and 
practical. 

God  is  a  spirit. 

He  moves  all  things  by  spiritual  forces. 

The  mystics,  the  saints,  are  the  communicating 
mediums  whereby  His  power.  His  truth,  and  His  love 
are  spread  among  men.  They  supplement  and  co- 
operate with  the  more  immediate  and  direct  agencies 
of  grace:  which  are  the  sacraments  instituted  by 
Christ,  and  besides  these,  His  free  grace,^  given  where, 
and  when,  and  why,  and  how.  He  alone  knows,  as  He 
alone  should  know. 

But  the  saints,  and  mystics,  being  after  all, 
eminently  human,  and  knowing  as  none  others  know 
what  human  beings  suffer  and  how  they  aspire  and 
act  and  fail,  accomplish,  under  God,  work  which  they 
alone  may  do. 


At  the  Gate  of  Mount  Carmel       311 

They  are  the  power-houses  of  the  Church.  They 
generate  spiritual  force  which  diffuses  itself 
throughout  the  world.  They  are  closer  to  the  hidden 
power  of  the  Most  High  than  all  other  souls. 

Which  of  course  is  why  they  are  so  practically  use- 
ful. 

For  God  is  Love,  and  the  mystics  are  the  lovers  of 
God,  through  whom  His  love  is  spread  upon  earth. 

It  is  the  function  of  love  to  give  itself,  to  communi- 
cate itself,  to  unite  itself  to  all  things  not  contrary 
to  its  nature.  Therefore,  God,  being  love,  seeks 
without  cessation  to  enter  all  souls  and  unite  them 
with  each  other  in  Him,  for  souls  are  the  units  of  the 
organism  of  love.  When  they  are  dispersed  and  torn 
asunder,  there  can  be  no  complete  happiness  and 
satisfaction.  They  yearn  toward  each  other  always 
— unless  they  turn  from  love  to  hate  and  reach  that 
awful,  that  unwordable  point  where  of  their  own 
will  they  seek  separation  instead  of  unity,  and,  of 
their  own,  volition,  plunge  into  the  abyss  of  denial 
and  of  everlasting  death,  the  abyss  of  endless  ego- 
tism. 

God  being  love,  it  is  love  that  flows  from  His  daily 
coming  in  the  Sacrifice  of  the  Mass.  It  is  by  love, 
and  through  love,  and  because  of  love,  that  His  saints 
are  given  the  largest  measure  of  the  love  that  flows 
out  from  His  sacraments.  And  this  overflowing  love, 
they,  imitating  God,  dispense  to  others.  That  is  their 
work.  They  are  specialists  in  the  Science  of  Love. 
They  are  experts  in  Prayer.  They  are  the  real  re- 
formers. They  are  the  poets  who  live  poetry,  being 
saturated  with  beauty  and  grace.  They  put  pleasures 
aside  for  the  sake  of  happiness. 


312  The  High  Romance 

It  is  known  now  that  just  before  the  war  there  was 
a  great  flight  of  souls  out  of  the  ways  of  the  world 
into  the  ways  of  God,  not  only  into  the  cloisters, 
but  also  to  live  the  personal  effort  at  sanctification  in 
the  world. 

There  was  a  new  outpouring  of  mystical  literature 
from  the  presses  all  over  the  earth.  There  was  con- 
currently a  new  quickening  of  religious  life. 

The  powers  of  good  were  mounting  and  multiply- 
ing for  the  struggle  with  the  powers  of  evil.  Do  you 
say,  the  latter,  then,  must  be  the  stronger,  for  look 
at  what  has  happened :  see  the  desolated  and  shattered 
world,  stricken  by  the  horrors  of  the  worst  of  all  great 
wars?  But  in  answer  I  say  that  the  spiritual  warfare 
of  good  against  evil  is  a  greater  and  more  awful 
struggle  than  the  one  that  has  ravaged  this  world :  the 
latter,  at  its  worst,  is  but  a  grim  and  frightful  panto- 
mime, a  gruesome  shadow,  cast  from  the  world  of 
spirit  in  which  the  warfare  of  the  forces  of  evil  against 
the  everlasting  God  goes  on:  a  warfare  of  which  the 
end  is  certain,  though  not  the  duration.  For  the  re- 
sults of  the  warfare  of  time  are  impermanent,  save  as 
they  conjoin  with  the  spiritual  struggle  whose  results 
are  for  all  eternity. 

And  when  the  war  is  over,  it  will  be  seen  by  many 
who  now  do  not  see  that  religion  must  be  recognized 
as  the  only  force  that  can  keep  the  world  sane  and 
endurable.  Its  power  will  be  bitterly  contested.  Let 
none  of  us  fail  to  remember  that  fact.  The  anti- 
religion  of  the  new  paganism  will  appeal  not  without 
tremendous  glamour  and  apparent  power  to  hungering 
and  thirsting  souls.     But  Christ  must  and  will  prevail. 


At  the  Gate  of  Mount  Carmel       313 

...  Of  course!  For,  even  if  this  world  should  pass 
utterly  into  the  hands  of  that  most  evil  one  who  denies 
God,  his  prize  would  be  temporary,  his  victory  a 
chimera.  For  to  Christ  belongs  eternity,  and  nothing 
short  of  eternal  success  comports  with  the  power  and 
majesty  of  Jesus  Christ. 

As  mediums  for  the  communication  of  love  from 
God  to  man,  the  ever-growing  number  of  those  who 
seek  personal  sanctification,  whether  in  the  world 
or  the  cloister  or  in  the  direct  service  of  the  church 
in  priestly  offices,  or  as  teachers,  arid  in  all  the 
branches  of  social  service — in  which  the  Church  from 
the  beginning  has  led  the  way,  and  will  continue 
to  lead — will  inevitably  increase.  Such  souls  are  the 
hidden  centres  of  energy  in  all  Christian  works  and 
movements  which  amount  to  anything. 

They  keep  alive  and  active  the  supernatural  mo- 
tives without  which  all  good  works  grow  sapless  and 
rigid  and  decadent.  They  invisibly  join  hands  with 
the  heavenly  spirits  who  are  appointed  to  assist 
humanity.  And,  as  the  Catholic  Church  is  the  centre 
of  all  true  progress,  the  signs  of  the  coming  advance 
of  spiritual  concerns  (the  only  concerns  that  are  of 
permanent  value)  may  be  discerned  in  the  growing  up 
of  many  centres  of  the  contemplative  life  throughout 
this  country,  and  in  the  lives  of  many  individuals  who 
are  living  in  the  world,  married  or  unmarried,  doing 
this  thing  or  that  thing,  whatever  they  are  called  to 
do,  but  making  all  things  subserve  the  progress  of  the 
one  only  thing  that  matters,  namely,  the  love  and  the 
service  of  God. 


314  The  High  Romance 

But  how  reluctantly  self-love  and  pride  surrender, 
even  when  they  know  they  have  been  conquered! 
How  stubbornly  they  hold  back  the  soul  when  the  door 
has  opened  to  its  knocking. 

My  pride  and  self-will  said  to  me: —  "Well,  yes, 
of  course,  this  is  a  perfectly  charming  adventure; 
make  the  most  of  it.  You  have  known  that 
mysticism  was  a  road  of  romance  and  wonder.  All 
your  life  you  have  sought  to  escape  from  the  hum- 
drum and  the  tedious  and  commonplace  ways  of 
ordinary  life.  You  have  discovered  that  the  soul  is 
not  happy  in  a  materialistic  world.  You  know  that 
materialistic  science  is  a  stupid  blunder.  There  is, 
in  all  verity,  a  God  who  will  reward  those  who  seek 
Him  out.  He  is  the  Creator  of  souls,  and  souls  are 
immortally  self-conscious  and  personal  beings. 

"And,  no  doubt,  your  soul,  searching  so  passion- 
ately for  the  life  and  light  of  God,  has  communicated 
with  the  soul  of  one  who  has  found  and  who  possesses 
what  you  are  looking  for,  and  a  gleam  of  the  pearl 
of  great  price  has  shone  for  an  instant  from  an  inter- 
stice between  the  visible  and  the  invisible  worlds. 
But,  granting  all  this,  there  really  is  no  valid  reason 
for  you  to  suppose  that  because  this  particular  soul 
happens  to  belong  to  one  of  the  innumerable  house- 
holds of  faith  that  you  are  necessitated  to  rush  into 
that  household,  where  you  may  simply  chafe  and 
rebel  against  all  its  formalism,  its  narrow  tryanny 
over  free  and  independent  souls.  No,  no,  no;  read 
and  profit  and  communicate  with  Sister  Teresa,  or 
any  other  Catholic  mystic,  living  or  dead;  but  pre- 
serve your  own  independence;  be  content  as  a  mem- 


At  the  Gate  of  Mount  Carmel       315 

ber  of  the  great  church  not  made  with  hands  in  which 
not  only  Catholic  Saints,  but  the  poets  and  the  artists 
and  the  intellectual  revolutionaries  are  the  ministers 
of  that  limitless  Truth  which  no  dogmas  or  creeds 
can  ever  confine." 

Which  argument  I  really  for  some  time  could  not 
answer.  Vacillating  and  distressed  after  the  first 
glowing  rush  of  conviction  had  ebbed,  as  all  things 
ebb,  I  beat  about  the  open  door  as  I  have  seen  birds 
beat  about  a  window,  the  light  of  which  had  blinded 
them;  only  I  was  not  blinded  by  the  light,  I  was  still 
blinded  by  the  darkness  of  my  own  conceit. 

I  called  on  the  Bishop. 

He  lifted  his  eyebrows  in  surprise  when  I  told  him 
I  had  visited  the  Carmelite  Prioress. 

"A  very  able  woman,"  he  remarked ;  "a  member  of 
an  old  and  distinguished  Boston  family.  I  daresay 
you  think  it  a  very  queer  thing  for  a  woman  of  culti- 
vation and  great  gifts  to  shut  herself  away  from  soci- 
ety like  this." 

"No;  I  think  I  partly  understand  it,"  I  replied. 

"They  are  experts  in  prayer,"  he  said,  "They 
call  down  power  for  us  who  work." 

He  looked  at  me,  smiling;  his  eyes  full  of  vigorous 
life;  sparks  of  colour  touching  the  amethyst  ring, 
the  golden  cross  peeping  from  between  the  buttons 
of  his  black  coat,  the  purple  below  his  collar. 

"You  seem,  strangely  enough,  to  understand  the 
work  they  are  called  to  do,"  he  said;  "but  you  do 
not  understand  the  Church  of  which  that  work  is  but 
a  part." 


316  The  High  Romance 

"That  is  the  case,"  I  answered,  "there  are  so  many 
things  that  the  Church  tells  me  I  must  believe,  which 
I  can't  believe." 

The  Bishop  busily  turned  to  his  desk. 

"Well,  come  around  again  some  day,  and  tell 
me  what  your  difficulties  are,  and  we'll  talk  them 
over,"  said  he.  "Telephone,  or  drop  in,  just  as  you 
like." 

This  wise,  enlightened  Bishop!  This  Bishop  who 
is  a  great  theologian,  but  who  knew  it  was  not 
theology  that  troubled  me;  but  only  the  sickness  of 
sin! 

A  few  weeks  later,  I  called  on  him  again. 

"Sit  down,  sit  down!"  he  cried.  "And  what's  the 
news?" 

At  that  time,  I  was  connected  with  a  daily  news- 
paper, and  the  Bishop's  keen  interest  in  all  that  con- 
cerned the  welfare  of  his  city  or  nation  led  him  to 
have  many  a  talk  with  one  who  knew  something  of 
the  inner  workings  of  public  affairs  from  viewing 
them  as  a  journalist.  Indeed,  nothing  human  is 
without  interest  to  him;  interest  and  keen  concern — 
even  as  is  the  case  with  the  ancient  Church,  ancient 
and  ever  new,  of  which  he  is  such  a  distinguished 
servant.  For  the  Church  knows  how  all  things  human 
may  be  made  good  where  they  are  not  good  by  one 
power  only — not  vast  philosophical  schemes  of  re- 
form, or  legislation,  or  by  word,  but  by  the  power  of 
goodness;  and  the  Church  is  the  channel  for  that 
goodness,  ever  flowing  from  God  toward  man,  and 
only  diverted  or  wasted  or  perverted  by  man's  own 
fault.  .  .  . 

But  I  think  the  Bishop  knew  as  soon  as  he  glanced 


At  the  Gate  of  Mount  Carmel       317 

at  my  face,  that  day,  that  I  had  come  to  talk  bus- 
iness; for  his  own  face  grew  alert  and  serious. 

"I  have  come,"  I  said,  "to  give  in." 

"But  your  doubts,"  he  said.  "There  are  things 
you  desire  to  see  more  clearly — " 

Then,  in  his  quick  impulsive  manner  the  Bishop 
jumped  to  his  feet,  and  made  a  little  gesture  which 
I'll  never  forget;  a  gesture  which  brushed  all  minor 
matters  aside.  He  knew  that  all  further  talk  and 
beating  about  the  bush  were  useless,  purely  a  waste 
of  energy.  For  I  no  longer  had  any  doubts.  They 
had  all  gone  away.  Faith  had  come.  And  faith 
told  me  all  and  more  than  any  theologian  could  do; 
for  theology  is  merely  the  intellectual  and  verbal  ex- 
pression of  faith,  and  therefore  at  best  only  a  partial 
expression;  because  Faith  holds  that  which  is  too 
deep  and  transcendent  for  the  unaided  mind  to  under- 
stand, or  for  words  to  say.  Faith  can  only  be  fully 
expressed  in  action,  in  terms  of  life,  in  sanctity  above 
all.  .  .  . 

So  the  Bishop  brushed  all  idle  talk  aside,  and  he 
said:  "My  son!"  And  the  love  which  his  Church 
exists  to  communicate  from  God  to  man,  shone  from 
him,  and  was  in  the  touch  of  his  hand. 

Next  morning,  I  confessed.  It  was  not,  this  sac- 
rament, at  all  what  I  feared;  it  was  not  a  surgical 
operation,  but  a  bath  of  balm  for  my  bruised  and 
aching  heart.  The  following  morning,  in  the  little 
chapel  of  the  Carmelites,  on  the  Feast  of  the  Assump- 
tion of  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary,  Queen  of  Carmel, 
I  communicated,  and  God  returned  to  my  soul.  .  .  . 
Truly  He  is,  and  He  rewards  those  who  will  seek 
Him  out.  .  .  . 


318  The  High  Romance 

1.  How  Faith  Returned 

It  was  long  afterward,  that  I  asked  myself,  How, 
and  Why,  did  my  doubts  disappear  and  my  Faith  re- 
turn? 

All  I  can  answer  is,  that  the  Carmelites,  the  Bishop, 
and  other  friends  had  been  praying  for  me.  There 
was,  in  especial,  dear  Katie  Lynch,  who  for  years, 
I  know,  had  prayed  for  me,  as  she  did — and  still, 
God  bless  her,  she  does — for  all  the  men,  "Her  boys," 
of  the  newspaper  where  she  sits  at  the  telephone  ex- 
change. Shall  I  ever  forget  the  joy  in  Katie's  face 
when  I  stopped  at  her  switch-board,  one  day,  and 
whispered  that  I  was  being  received  into  the  Church? 
And  Katie  was  in  the  little  Carmelite  church,  next 
morning,  to  be  sure,  and  said  a  prayer  for  me.  It 
was  Katie,  and  the  likes  of  her,  who  taught  me  where 
true  religion  is  mostly  to  be  found,  and  true  mysti- 
cism,— among  the  poor  of  God,  the  faithful  souls, 
who  live  lives  of  goodness;  the  priests,  and  the  nuns, 
and  the  men  and  women  you  may  see  in  the  grey  wan 
light  of  early  morning,  going  to  early  Mass.  .  .  .  Ah, 
when  I  think  of  this  vast  net  of  prayer  and  self-sacri- 
fice which  is  woven  from  Atlantic  to  Pacific,  from 
north  to  south,  in  every  town  and  city  in  our  great 
country,  this  tidal  ebb  and  flow  of  sacramental  spirit- 
ual power,  then  I  know  what  a  force  for  good  this 
Catholic  Church  is  in  our  land  of  over-much  material- 
ism, of  too  much  fret  and  worry  about  the  things  that 
do  not  matter.  .  .  . 

Secondly,  I,  too,  had  been  praying  for  light.  More 
to  the  purpose,  I  am  sure  that  Sister  Teresa  and  Sister 
Elizabeth,  prayed  also,  on  the  other  side  of  the  veil. 


At  the  Gate  of  Mount  Carmel       319 

And  now  that  my  will — which  I  had  falsely  thought 
to  be  so  powerful,  but  which  in  fact  had  become  so 
weak  that  I  could  keep  no  pledge,  could  maintain  no 
determination,  but  on  the  contrary  had  become  a 
prey  of  every  mood  and  impulse  that  swept  over  me 
— now,  I  say,  that  at  last  my  will  was  even  feebly 
trying  to  will  the  will  of  God,  it  was  assisted.  Its 
impeded  power  (impeded  because  of  its  wounded, 
crippled,  poisoned  condition)  was  being  supported 
by  the  purified  wills  of  my  friends  on  earth,  and  my 
friends  in  heaven.  .  .  . 

And,  therefore,  faith  returned;  first  dimly,  and 
uncertainly,  then  stronger  and  stronger,  and  steadier, 
and  steadier,  like  the  sure  sun  rising.  And,  like  sun 
shining  on  ice,  faith  melted  the  frosty  egotism  that 
had  congealed  the  inmost  springs  of  good  action  in 
my  soul;  and  the  tides  of  faith  now  burst  forth,  ihey 
streamed  through  my  being;  they  broke  down  all 
obstacles;  they  swept  away  the  worst  of  the  rubbish 
and  waste  and  filth,  and  carried  my  soul,  as  on  a 
raft  of  hope,  over  the  flood  and  the  wreck  of  my  old 
life,  to  the  shore  of  certitude. 

Now,  I  am  aware,  that  there  is  what  would  seem 
to  many  minds  a  very  plausible  explanation  of  this 
return  of  faith,  its  smouldering  approach  and  then, 
as  it  were,  its  spontaneous  combustion,  in  my  soul. 
This  explanation  has  been  made  by  many  of  my 
friends,  who  say:  "It's  all  quite  simple.  The  Church 
had  him  under  its  influence  in  his  childhood,  and  the 
power  which  moulds  the  child  will  usually  prevail 
with  the  man,  even  if  for  a  time  he  throws  off  the 
influence." 


320  The  High  Romance 

But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  only  hold  which  the 
Church  had  upon  me  when  I  was  a  child  was  pre- 
cisely of  that  sort  which  critics  of  the  rational  kind 
will  not  recognize — it  was  almost  solely  supernatural. 
That  is  to  say,  I  did  not  go  to  a  Catholic  school,  but 
received  what  little  education  I  did  receive  in  a  non- 
religious  public  school.  My  home  atmosphere  was 
far  removed  from  being  strongly  Catholic;  it  was 
only  superficially  Catholic.  And  from  the  age  of 
fourteen  even  this  slight  connection  with  the  Church 
was  broken  off.  On  the  other  hand,  I  did  receive  the 
sacramental  seals  of  the  Faith;  I  was  baptized;  I  was 
confirmed;  I  became  a  communicant.  So,  for  my 
part,  I  am  satisfied,  that  deeper  than  the  evanescent 
impressions  which  my  mind  took  from  the  few  cat- 
echism lessons  and  instructions  given  me,  were  the 
spiritual  marks  of  the  sacraments;  and  that  the  sac- 
raments left  channels,  as  it  were,  in  my  soul,  which 
channels  became  lost  beneath  debris  and  rot,  yet  were 
nevertheless  indestructible,  and  when  the  flood  of  faith 
again  entered  my  being  the  debris  was  swept  away, 
and  the  sacramental  channels  of  grace  resumed  their 
functions.  .  .  . 

But,  even  as  I  examine  and  search  into  the  mys- 
teries of  this  re-birth,  I  know  that  to  the  mind  without 
faith,  I  talk  Chinese  or  gibberish.  For  without  the 
illumination  of  faith  (which  is  not  credulity,  though 
many  critics  of  Christianity  confound  the  two  things), 
the  mind  is  unable  to  understand  and  act  upon  the 
truths  of  religion.  Faith  is  a  mystical  power  which 
enables  the  mind  to  recognize  religious  truth.  I  do 
not  mean  that  faith  brings  the  vision  of  truth;  for  the 
vision  of  truth  belongs  to  eternity,  though  certain 


At  the  Gate  of  Mount  Carmel       321 

highly  privileged  souls  gain  glimpses  even  in  time; 
but  faith  supplies  a  certitude  of  truth,  a  conviction, 
which  is  a  power  in  itself  to  the  soul  as  it  struggles 
forward  upon  its  mission:  its  mission  of  proving 
itself,  in  this  evanescent  life,  worthy  of  the  life  more 
abundant  of  eternity. 

So,  faith  itself  it  was  that  taught  me  the  truth,  and 
showed  me  that  Christ  in  all  verity  was  God;  that 
He  had  become  man  that  we  might  follow  Him  to 
God;  and  that  Christ  was  still  with  us,  here  upon 
earth,  in  His  mystical  body,  the  Church;  into  which 
He  would  have  all  souls  incorporated,  in  the  union 
of  will  and  of  faith,  in  the  life  of  love — brothers 
all,  in  the  Fatherhood  of  God.  Therefore,  no  longer 
was  there  any  question,  for  me,  of  would  I  or  should 
I  enter  the  Church.  I  now  found  myself  in  the 
Church;  and  that  was  the  end  of  my  bitter  strug- 
gles. .  .  • 

And  week  by  week,  and  month  by  month,  and  year 
by  year,  thereafter,  God  let  His  light  shine  clear  and 
still  more  clear,  and  I  knew  that  faith  illuminates  the 
mind,  and  that  only  in  the  light  of  faith  can  truth 
be  known.  With  faith,  one  may  truly  see;  not  all, 
not  everything;  still  as  in  a  glass  darkly;  yet,  it  is 
seeing,  it  is  assuredly  seeing  that  part  by  which  the 
whole  is  fully  believed  in;  and  so,  my  mind,  at- 
tempting to  deal  with  its  changed  relations,  and  feel- 
ing it  necessary  to  do  so,  though  well  aware  that  to 
those  without  faith  its  processes  are  perhaps  even 
more  unconvincing  than  the  lyric  cry  of  pure,  in- 
stinctive faith,  arranged  its  attitude  toward  the 
Church,  as  follows: 


322  The  High  Romance 

Since  there  is  a  God  (I  said)  Who  is  Good;  the 
creator  of  all  men  and  of  all  things,  and  their  sus- 
taining principle,  it  is  inconceivable  for  me  to  sup- 
pose that  He  would  not  communicate  this  truth  to  His 
children. 

Nor  would  He  entrust  such  a  work  of  love  to  any 
other  than  Himself. 

God  alone  could  be  the  Authority  for  the  communi- 
cation of  Eternal  Truth. 

But  mortal  man  could  never  understand  the  divin- 
ity of  God. 

Humanity  could  not  face  on  equal  terms  the  abso- 
lute Spirit.  If  it  could  do  so  it  would  be  equal  to 
God;  which  is  impossible:  which  to  believe  is  to  sin 
the  sin  of  absolute  pride:  for  God  is  the  Creator  of 
man. 

Hence,  God  in  His  goodness  must  will  to  accommo- 
date Himself  to  man. 

How  else  would  He  do  so  than  by  becoming  man 
Himself? 

This  was  the  turning  point. 

I  saw,  and  fully  acknowledged,  the  necessity  of 
Jesus  Christ. 

He  was  a  man;  and  He  was  also  the  Eternal  and 
Omnipotent,  Absolute  Divine. 

And,  this  being  so,  how  unquestionable  the  fact 
that  Christ  would  create  and  perpetuate  an  infallible 
Guide  and  Authority  to  spread  His  teaching  and  main- 
tain it  pure  and  permanently  immutable!  For  He 
knew  the  nature  of  Man;  He  better  than  any  knew 
the  injury  which  had  been  caused  by  man's  Fall  from 
uprightness  and  truth — a  fall  due  to  Pride  and  Diso- 
bedience: a  fall  which  all  men  go  on  repeating  in 


At  the  Gate  of  Mount  Carmel       323 

greater  or  lesser  degree.  Left  to  themselves,  cut 
loose  from  the  restraint  of  obedience  to  lawful  Au- 
thority, was  it  not  the  ineluctable  tendency  of  human 
beings  to  set  up  and  worship  each  for  himself  an  idol 
made  in  his  own  likeness,  or  in  the  likeness  of  that 
Evil  Spirit  who  became  Evil  by  the  first  act  of  self- 
will  and  disobedience?  Hence,  would  Christ  not  set 
up  a  Church:  infallible,  perdurable,  speaking  and 
acting  with  absolute  and  immutable  Authority? 

Every  fibre  of  my  being  answered,  Yes. 

There  must  be  a  Church  established  and  maintained 
by  Jesus  Christ,  acting  with  His  authority,  and  that 
Church  I  must  find. 

And  find  it  I  did — the  Church  of  my  childhood: 
the  Church  of  the  Holy  Child;  the  Body  of  Jesus 
Christ. 


I 


CHAPTER  XIV 

HOW   SISTER   TERESA    CONFIRMED    HER   FAVOUR 

1.  I  Sail  Away  to  War 

TOLD  the  Bishop  about  Sister  Teresa's  gift  of  a 
rose,  or  rather  the  perfume  of  a  rose;  a  mystical 
rose  of  Paradise. 

"Of  course,"  I  acknowledged;  "there  is  a  perfectly 
reasonable  case  to  be  made  out  for  the  view  that 
there  was  nothing  at  all  supernatural  in  the  episode, 
and  that  it  was  merely  an  instance  of  auto-sugges- 
tion. .  .  ." 

The  Bishop  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Yes,  of 
course,"  he  said.  "But  supernatural  things  happen, 
you  know;  yes,  they  happen." 

He  was  right.  For  such  a  things  not  only  hap- 
pened to  me,  but  it  happened  again,  in  confirmation 
of  the  first  visitation. 

Just  one  year  from  the  day  when  the  little  breath 
from  Heaven  blew  across  my  dreary  path,  and  made 
it  break  out  in  blossoming  beauty,  the  true  road  of  the 
High  Romance,  found  at  last,  once  again  Sister  Te- 
resa manifested  her  interest  in  her  brother  who  was 
wandering  amid  the  illusions  and  the  mists  of  time. 

It  happened  in  Mexico. 

I  had  persuaded  my  managing  editor  to  let  me 
alleviate  the  drudgery  of  a  reporter's  task  by  writing 

324 


Sister  Teresa  Confirmed  Her  Favour     325 

art  criticism.  One  day  I  came  in  from  my  rounds 
of  the  picture  galleries,  and  was  told  to  pack  up  and 
go  aboard  a  warship  in  the  harbour  that  was  to  sail 
in  the  morning  for  Mexico.  Huerta  had  insulted  the 
American  flag.  The  United  States  marines  were 
ashore  at  Vera  Cruz.  The  Mexican  crisis  had  ar- 
rived at  last.     It  was  War!     Or,  so  we  thought.  .  .   . 

I  did  not  know  any  good  reason  why  I  should  be 
going,  but  I  soon  was  on  my  way.  It  was  an  assign- 
ment; handed  out  in  that  amazingly  haphazard  fash- 
ion in  which  so  many  of  our  big  newspapers  transact 
their  affairs.  I  knew  no  Spanish.  I  had  given 
no  more  than  the  most  cursory  attention  to  the  messy 
situation  in  Mexico.  I  had  no  experience  in  naval 
or  military  matters,  and  knew  next  to  nothing  about 
international  politics;  but,  as  usual,  such  consider- 
ations did  not  get  themselves  reckoned  with ;  what  my 
paper  wanted  was  lively  reading  matter;  I  was  sup- 
posed to  be  a  pretty  good  reporter — and  a  pretty  good 
reporter  is  expected  to  be  competent  to  handle  any 
subject  in  the  entire  encyclopedia  of  human  events. 

Such  a  view,  which  is  the  working  policy  of  many 
an  influential  paper,  is  part  and  parcel  of  the  fright- 
ful fallacy  which  gives  to  private,  personal  judgment 
such  devastating  power  in  human  aff'airs.  It  explains 
a  great  deal  of  the  trouble  of  our  reckless,  ignorant, 
superficial  modem  world.  It  is  the  fallacy  which 
permits  irresponsible,  ignorant,  reckless,  egotistical 
scribblers  to  hypnotize  whole  populations  with  their 
editorials,  and  sway  them  this  way  and  that  way  to 
suit  their  own  views  or  the  views  of  their  financial 
and  political  masters.  It  is  the  same  philosophy 
which  underlies  the  preaching  and  the  prophetizing 


326  The  High  Romance 

of  modem  artists  and  revolutionary  intellectualists, 
only  it  is  seen  at  its  crude  and  vulgar  worst  in  the 
yellow  newspaper. 

However,  I  did  not  indulge  myself  in  such  reflec- 
tions. This,  after  all,  was  an  adventure!  So  I 
bought  a  pair  of  binoculars,  a  fountain  pen,  (a  leaky 
nuisance  which  I  heaved  overboard  a  few  days  later) , 
khaki  clothes  and  such  like  contraptions,  and  duly 
became  a  War  Correspondent. 

The  thrill  of  it  lasted  for  quite  a  time.  We 
steamed  forth  from  San  Francisco  Bay,  convoyed  by 
tugs  full  of  motion  picture  operators  and  newspaper 
photographers  (I  did  my  best  not  to  look  self-con- 
scious when  the  cameras  clicked),  outward  bound  to 
War! 

The  ferry  boats  went  past,  careening  by  the  battle- 
ship on  which  I  was  stationed,  tip-tilting  with  the 
weight  of  wildly  cheering  commuters,  and  from  a 
press  tugboat  one  of  my  fellow  reporters  howled  at 
me  through  a  megaphone:  "Put  a  punch  in  your  stuff, 
remember!  Don't  forget,  now,  put  a  punch  in  your 
stuff!"  He  was  giving  me  a  friendly  yet  warning 
tip;  for  I  was  rather  suspiciously  tainted  with  high- 
browism,  I  am  afraid,  in  the  opinion  of  my  local 
room. 

The  Golden  Gate  opened  before  us;  the  tugs  fell 
back;  the  cheering  died  away;  the  city  became  a  vague 
strip  of  mottled  colour  on  the  shore,  the  land  itself 
grew  faint,  and  the  sea  received  us  into  its  silence 
and  its  peace. 

But  we  did  not  heed  the  message  of  the  sea.  It 
was  only  a  sort  of  street  or  passageway  down  which 
we  steamed  on  the  grim  business  of  war.     Southward 


Sister  Teresa  Confirmed  Her  Favour     327 

we  thrust  steadily  on  through  the  sun-drenched,  slowly 
rolling  waters.  The  great  ship  was  like  a  moving 
city  of  steel,  rigid  and  trim  as  an  office  building. 
Sweet  pure  winds  blew  their  bland  breath  upon  us, 
full  of  mystical  whispers  that  came  across  thousands 
of  leagues  of  sea,  from  far  islands  of  romance  and 
the  yellow  countries  of  Khans,  Sultans  and  Mikados. 
At  night,  in  a  soft,  hazy,  purple  sky  the  stars  were 
incredibly  multitudinous.  I  had  forgotten  that  there 
were  so  many  stars. 

Once,  late  at  night,  the  officer  on  the  bridge  con- 
senting, I  climbed  the  forward  mast,  high  up,  to  the 
armoured  machine  gun  platform. 

Seen  from  there,  the  ship  that  I  had  considered 
immense,  like  a  great  city  of  steel  (we  carried  more 
than  a  thousand  souls),  and  rigid  like  an  office  build- 
ing, was  a  slender,  frail,  tenuous  thing,  and  the  foam- 
streaked  black  abyss  of  the  ocean  was  no  longer 
merely  a  street;  it  had  become  mysterious  and  mighty. 
Looking  upward,  the  starry  sky  seemed  close;  it 
seemed  all  about  us,  yet  also  remote  beyond  conjec- 
ture. .  .  . 

When  I  reached  the  deck  again  I  avoided  every- 
body, wishful  to  go  to  sleep  with  the  impression  of 
the  sky  fresh  in  my  heart.  But  a  friendly  marine, 
doing  sentry  duty,  stopped  me  with  a  question: 

"Do  you  reckon  we'll  sure  enough  fight  the  Spig- 
goties  this  time,  Mr.  Reporter?" 

"It  looks  that  way,"  I  answered. 

"Gee!     It's  kind  of  queer,  ain't  it?" 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  I  dunno — ^but  it's  queer.  I  was  goin'  to  take 
a  job  with  the  Forest  Rangers  in  my  home  state,  Idaho, 


328  The  High  Romance 

and  then  a  guy  who's  a  friend  of  mine,  says,  *0h, 
come  on — let's  join  the  marines,  and  get  a  trip  to 
the  Philippines,  or  somewhere.'  So  we  did,  and  now 
here  we  are,  off  to  light  the  Spiggoties.  Gee,  I  never 
reckoned  we'd  sure  enough  get  into  any  scrapping  on 
our  trip,  no  sirree." 

"Well,  how  do  you  like  it?" 

"Doggone  if  I  know  yet — I  ain't  got  nothin'  against 
them  Spiggoties,  except  I  guess  they  are  a  mean  gang, 
by  what  I  hear — but  if  they  got  to  be  whipped,  why 
I  reckon  we  got  to  do  it — but  it's  queer,  that's  what 
I  think — it's  queer." 

I  agreed  with  him.  Queer  it  was.  The  whole 
business.  Especially  at  night,  when  one  had  just  de- 
scended from  the  silence  above  the  deck,  up  under 
the  quiet  stars  that  were  so  irrefragibly  remote,  so 
mystically  strange. 

But  it  was  not  strange  by  day,  when  we  could 
plainly  see  the  long  black  torpedo  boats  hanging 
about  us  like  some  new  breed  of  porpoise,  and  the 
huge  electrical  collier  wallowing  behind  us,  and  the 
band  played,  and  the  marines  were  drilling,  and  the 
jackies  were  stowing  away  the  supplies  hurried 
aboard  so  profusely  in  San  Francisco.  Then  every- 
thing was  a  stirring  and  fascinating  piece  of  business. 
The  busy  wireless  brought  us  scraps  of  ominous  news 
from  Vera  Cruz,  and  bulletins  from  the  flaming  press 
of  our  excited  land.  And  I  studied  maps  of  Mexico, 
and  talked  by  the  hour  with  various  marine  and 
naval  officers,  and  sent  home  wireless  stuff  in  which 
I  hoped  there  was  the  "punch"  that  the  reporter  im- 
plored, so  that  my  fellow  citizens  should  not  fail 
to  be  ihriljed  in  the  space  between  coffee  9,nd  work, 


Sister  Teresa  Confirmed  Her  Favour     329 

as  they  crowded  into  trolley  cars,  railroad  trains  and 
ferries,  from  New  York  to  San  Francisco,  from  Port- 
land to  Galveston. 

Presently,  the  long,  dim  line  of  jagged  coast  be- 
came Mexico  instead  of  California,  with  no  change 
of  appearance,  except  that  it  grew  more  barren. 
Then  we  sped  across  the  hot,  hazy  Gulf  of  California 
and  reached  the  mainland,  and  the  fleet  scattered  its 
units  up  and  down  a  thousand  miles  of  torrid,  steam- 
ing, sweltering  coast  line,  with  queer,  little  coloured 
towns  stuck  upon  the  edges  of  palm  groves  and  blaz- 
ing desert,  every  five  hundred  miles  or  so,  and 
swarms  of  alligators  crawling  on  the  bars  of  the  few 
marshy  rivers,  and  buzzards  sailing  enigmatically 
overhead. 

There  for  the  next  five  months  or  so — each  month 
hotter  than  the  one  before — we  swashed  to  and  fro 
upon  the  never-ceasing,  liver-churning  swell,  from 
Guaymas  to  Acapulco,  and  watchfully  waited,  and 
waited  watchfully,  while  nothing  happened,  nothing 
happened,  nothing  at  all. 

Then  it  grew  hotter.  After  that  it  grew  hotter. 
Presently  it  grew  hotter.  Then  hotter.  The  men 
could  not  go  ashore.  They  could  only  look  at  the 
shore  and  long.  The  staff  officers,  however,  daily 
visited  the  town  before  which  my  ship  was  stationed, 
and  I  could  do  as  I  pleased — it  being  understood,  oh, 
distinctly  understood,  that  No  Responsibility  was  in- 
curred for  me.  The  Admiral  pointed  this  out.  So 
did  the  Captain.  The  Executive  Officer — as  became 
that  zealous  man — renewed  the  compact  daily. 

And  the  sailormeli  grew  soft,  and  dull,  and  pasty 
of  face,  and  in  the  hot  dank  nights  the  mean,  feverish 


330  The  High  Romance 

Mexican  devils  crawled  aboard  from  the  festering 
city  and  the  hot,  sickly  swell,  and  things  happened 
that  made  the  Chaplain  look  white-lipped  and  drawn, 
and  made  the  surgeons  swear  at  whoever  was  respon- 
sible for  keeping  the  fleet  in  this  putrescent  pickle. 
We  buried  a  suicide  or  two,  in  the  sea,  and  we  shipped 
home  by  the  colliers  many  muttering  melancholiacs, 
and  at  night  we  languidly  looked  at  stale  motion  pic- 
tures and  made  the  band  play  till  the  men  were  ready 
to  bite  their  mouthpieces  in  two. 

So  I  went  ashore  a  good  deal,  not  only  to  escape 
from  the  stuffy,  irritable  atmosphere  of  the  battleship, 
but  also  because  I  grew  fond  of  that  sad,  wounded, 
beautiful,  desolated  little  city  of  Mazatlan.  For 
nearly  two  years  the  revolutionaries  had  been  en- 
camped about  it.  All  its  wealthier  citizens  had  long 
ago  gone  away,  leaving  only  those  whose  financial 
interest  compelled  their  staying  on,  and,  of  course, 
the  poor  folk — ^the  eternal  sufferers,  the  dumb,  the 
driven  poor,  that  we  have  always  with  us.  A  hand- 
ful of  foreigners,  German,  British,  American,  French, 
Spanish,  still  lingered.  Day  by  day  the  revolution- 
aries attacked  the  outposts  and  advanced  trenches  of 
the  garrison.  Anywhere  from  three  to  twenty  men, 
women,  and  children  were  wounded  Or  slain  each  day 
by  snipers  firing  into  town  from  the  jungles  and  hills. 
The  place  was  quite  too  strong  for  the  revolutionaries 
to  carry  by  storm,  with  their  inadequate  artillery,  but 
they  were  slowly,  very  slowly,  yet  surely,  starving  it 
into  surrender.  The  garrison,  of  course,  maintained 
a  grip  on  the  bulk  of  the  food  supply,  so,  necessarily, 
the  poor  folk  suffered  the  brunt  of  this  slow  torture. 
The  death  rate  was  frightful.     Weakened  by  mal- 


Sister  Teresa  Confirmed  Her  Favour     331 

nutrition,  the  people,  especially  the  children,  lan- 
guidly yielded  to  whatever  sickness  cared  to  take  the 
trouble  of  attacking  such  tame  and  tired  victims. 
They  simply  lay  down,  rather  willingly,  I  believe, 
and  drowsed  away  into  the  dusky  end  of  all. 

In  the  shade  of  the  dusty  trees  in  the  plazas,  or  in 
doorways  and  shops,  amid  streets  scarred  with  rifle 
shots  and  torn  by  shell  explosions,  and  dirty  and  mal- 
odorous as  only  a  neglected  tropical  town  can  be,  the 
dull-eyed,  listless,  emaciated  men  stood  about  in  little 
groups,  talking  in  low  voices,  or  else  they  prowled 
about  looking  for  shell-fish  on  the  shore.  One  day 
some  of  them  discovered  the  carcass  of  a  cow,  which 
after  starving  a  long  time,  had  died  and  been  cast 
forth  on  the  shore  for  the  next  tide  to  carry  out  to 
the  fish  (for  the  buzzards  disdained  it).  They  cut 
that  shrunken,  tough  piece  of  skin  and  bones  to  pieces 
so  bloodless  that  they  left  no  stain  where  the  cutting 
was  done,  and  went  off  to  their  poor  families,  thank- 
ing God,  saying  earnestly:  ''Dios  gracias.''  Now  and 
then  some  of  them  mustered  enough  energy  to  raid 
a  Chinese  shop,  looting  the  com  and  canned  goods. 
The  frail  children  begged  from  door  to  door,  or 
hunted  for  cactus  fruit  in  the  rocks  near  the  beau- 
tiful carriage  drive  along  the  shore,  and  for  the  rest 
of  my  life  I  shall  be  haunted  by  their  pleading, 
mournful  eyes.  The  women  also  begged,  also,  being 
devout,  they  gathered  in  the  churches.  I  used  to  step 
in  to  watch  and  wonder  as  they  knelt  before  the  gaudy 
altars,  or  the  grotesque  stations  of  the  cross,  some  of 
them  with  their  skinny  arms  stretched  out  in  the 
terrific  cruciform  symbol;  others  beating  upon  their 
lean  breasts,  accusing  themselves,  no  doubt — as  the 


332  The  High  Romance 

good,  the  best  souls  do, — of  the  sins  which  had  drawn 
down  such  woe  upon  the  land. 

"They  are  wonderful,  these  people,"  said  the 
Englishman  who  had  lived  in  Mexico  for  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  one  day  when  we  were  dining  together 
on  the  curious  scraps  served  in  the  hotel  which  catered 
to  foreigners.  "Preyed  upon  by  adventurers  and 
demagogues  who  possess  not  a  scrap  of  real  patriot- 
ism, but  who  simply  tear  the  country  apart  to  feast 
on  the  fragments,  the  greater  number  of  the  Mexican 
people  still  retain  a  wonderful  goodness.  I  have 
watched  them  for  twenty-five  years  and  my  admira- 
tion grows  deeper.  They  have  never  been  given  a 
fair  chance  by  their  various  governments;  never  edu- 
cated properly,  never  really  helped;  yet  they  help 
each  other.  The  poorest  are  marvellously  charitable 
to  each  other.  They  are  miraculously  patient.  In 
the  midst  of  all  the  frightful  disorders  and  troubles, 
they  say,  'Well,  it  is  the  will  of  God.'  And  they  wait 
for  better  days.  When  I  read  the  American  papers 
which  glibly  talk  about  the  great  popular  revolutions 
in  Mexico,  I'm  utterly  disgusted.  Why  don't  they 
try  to  get  at  the  facts?  Why  don't  they  show  that  the 
facts  are  that  the  Mexican  people  are  victimized  by 
a  handful  of  professional  politicians  and  professional 
revolutionaries,  more  than  they  were  by  the  most 
despotic  of  their  former  governments.  Why  do  the 
people  stand  it?  Well,  all  the  arms  are  owned  by 
the  paid  revolutionary  fighters;  and  the  people  them- 
selves are  not  united.  Those  of  one  state  are  more 
isolated  from  those  of  another  state  than  nation  is 
from  nation,  in  Europe." 

So,  believe  me,   all  notions  which  first  I  might 


Sister  Teresa  Confirmed  Her  Favour     333 

have  entertained  concerning  the  purple  pomp  of  War, 
and  the  romantic  interest  of  writing  War  news, 
quickly  faded  away.  This  was  not  a  War,  but  a 
mournful  misfortune,  and  I  hoped  that  if  our  arms 
did  go  ashore  they  would  go  there  not  to  back  up  the 
dirty  game  of  the  revolutionists,  but  to  police  the  land 
for  a  time,  and  give  the  stable  elements — if  such  there 
were — a  chance  to  set  up  a  decent  government,  and 
then  withdraw. 

2.  The  Bomb 

There  was  little  news  for  me  to  send  to  my  paper, 
even  though  I  risked  my  neck  landing  through  the 
surf  to  the  south  of  the  city,  and  joined  the  head- 
quarters of  General  Obregon,  staying  with  him  for 
some  days,  looking  for  good  stuff.  And  I  went  with 
an  agent  of  the  United  States  State  Department,  on 
a  hand-car  on  the  dismantled  railroad,  forty  miles 
farther  south,  to  Rosario,  and  remained  there  a  fort- 
night. I  gathered  heaps  of  gorgeous  local  colour; 
but  mighty  little  news. 

Yet  I  did  witness  an  event  which  was,  in  its  way, 
historical;  an  event  which  cast  a  queer  shadow  before 
the  vast  Catastrophe  which  was  even  then,  though 
we  knew  it  not  at  Mazatlan,  darkling  over  Europe. 

Attached  to  Obregon's  forces  was  an  aviator  with 
an  American  aeroplane  who  almost  daily  made  flights 
above  the  city  and  dropped  down  proclamations,  call- 
ing upon  the  people  to  join  the  revolution.  So  accus- 
tomed did  they  become  to  him  that  they  would  run 
into  the  streets  when  he  appeared  and  shout:  "  Buenas 
dias,  sefior!"  The  Federal  forces  possessed  no  anti- 
air-craft  guns,  so  the  aviator  was  never  disturbed. 


334  The  High  Romance 

One  morning,  just  after  breakfast,  I  came  upon 
the  quarter  deck,  and  Admiral  Howard,  pacing  up 
and  down  his  sacrosanct  side  of  the  deck,  courte- 
ously called  me  over,  and  we  paced  up  and  down, 
chatting  together.  As  we  made  a  turn,  we  both  saw 
the  bursting  black  cloud  of  a  bomb  explosion  arising 
from  near  the  church  in  the  main  plaza  of  the  city. 

This  had  never  happened  before,  and  Admiral 
Howard,  and  the  other  naval  officers  who  came  run- 
ning up  to  the  spotting  glasses,  were  frankly  aston- 
ished; because  they  thought  they  knew  the  location 
and  range  of  all  the  few  guns  possessed  by  Obregon, 
and  they  knew  of  none  so  situated  that  it  could  throw 
a  shell  to  this  particular  spot. 

None  of  us  even  thought  about  the  aeroplane. 

Yet,  far  over  our  heads,  in  the  stainless  blue  sky, 
where  a  flock  of  buzzards  soared,  was  the  aeroplane, 
and  from  the  aeroplane  the  bomb  had  been  hurled, 
in  an  effort  to  hit  a  fort  which  we  called  Round  Top, 
a  hill  fortress,  on  the  seaward  edge  of  the  city.  The 
bomb  had  missed  the  hill  by  half  a  mile,  and  struck 
in  a  street  called  the  Street  of  the  Carnival,  dashing 
to  pieces,  or  badly  smashing  up,  sixteen  or  eighteen 
of  the  poor  people  of  Mazatlan,  mostly  women  and 
children. 

This,  I  believe,  was  the  first  occasion  a  bomb  was 
ever  hurled  from  an  airship  into  a  city  killing  or 
maiming  non-combatants. 

Later  in  the  day,  we  discovered  what  had  caused 
this  explosion,  and  there  was  an  immediate  council 
of  the  commanders  of  the  various  ships  in  Mazatlan; 
an  Englishman,  commanding  a  little  gun-boat,  a  Ger- 
man, commanding  an  armoured  cruiser,  the  Leipzig, 


Sister  Teresa  Confirmed  Her  Favour     335 

afterwards  sent  to  the  bottom  in  the  battle  off  the 
Falklands,  and  a  Japanese  captain,  besides  Admiral 
Howard. 

It  then  came  out  that  Mexico  had  not  signed  The 
Hague  agreement  which  prevented  such  outrages. 
Nevertheless,  all  agreed,  German,  English,  Japanese, 
American,  that  treaty  or  no  treaty,  such  outrages  must 
be  prevented,  and  notice  to  that  effect  was  served  upon 
Obregon.  He  explained  that  the  bomb  had  been 
meant  for  the  fort,  but  promised  that  for  the  future 
no  attempts  would  be  made  to  hit  a  fort  on  the  very 
edge  of  a  populous  city  from  an  aeroplane  a  mile  or 
so  up  in  the  air. 

3.  The  Carmelite  Church 

I  got  to  know  Mazatlan  rather  well,  and  its  exotic 
beauty  is  impressed  upon  my  memory  with  a  seal 
of  sorrowful  and  tragic  charm. 

I  discovered,  in  a  small  plaza,  remote  from  the 
more  prosperous  quarter  of  the  city,  a  little  Carmelite 
church,  a  gem  of  simple  architectural  beauty,  and 
with  a  really  first-class  statue  of  Saint  Teresa.  In 
this  little  chapel,  among  the  humble  people,  I  spent 
long  hours,  trying  to  make  myself  understand  with 
practical  force  that  if  a  man  has  friends  in  the  other 
world — as  I  knew  I  had — he  could  only  maintain 
that  friendship  on  condition  that  he  was  a  friend  to 
people  in  this  world;  also,  that  unless  the  wells  of 
mystical  beauty  gave  the  one  that  found  them  strength 
and  courage  for  practical  work  in  this  material  world, 
and  for  the  doing  of  his  duty,  he  had  wandered  from 
the  true  road  and  in  a  desert  of  shifting  mirages  had 


336  The  High  Romance 

come  to  the  fountains  of  illusion,  and  the  oasis  of 
vain  dreams. 

And  I  would  repeat  over  and  over  again,  in  various 
words  and  forms,  the  cry  my  spirit  had  so  often 
uttered  in  the  wandering,  passionate  days  of  other 
years : 

"If  ever  I  forget  my  brothers  and  sisters  who  are 
in  the  dark  places,  and  in  want,  and  ignorance,  and 
misery,  0  God  punish  me!" 

4.  Antonio's  Baby 

But  I  did  not  spend  all  my  time  in  the  golden 
silence  and  serene  beauty  of  that  Carmelite  church. 
I  made  acquaintances  among  the  Mexican  people,  and 
tried  to  understand  them.  Also,  I  would  often  go 
to  the  chief  hotel,  and  sit  down  in  the  huge,  still  patio 
(still  except  when  the  guns  of  Round-Top  thundered, 
and  the  shells  went  hurtling  overhead),  and  talk  with 
Louis,  the  German-Jew  from  Chicago,  who  managed 
its  sadly  diminished  business  for  some  absent  pro- 
prietor. 

Louis  was  very  fat,  and  exceedingly  pimpled,  and 
suffered  much  from  prickly  heat,  and  the  loss  of 
business.  Nevertheless,  he  was  a  philosopher  who 
had  managed  to  construct  a  system  of  thought,  by 
which  he  maintained  his  mental  peace  even  in  melan- 
choly Mexico.  He  explained  his  system  to  me  sev- 
eral times  in  the  long,  desultory  talks  we  had  in  the 
dusky  patio,  amid  the  potted  palms,  with  the  stone 
floor  moistened  to  keep  things  cool,  and  from  time 
to  time  the  whole  place  shaking  violently  as  a  shrap- 
nel shell  crashed  over  our  heads  from  the  fort. 


Sister  Teresa  Confirmed  Her  Favour     337 

"Each  morning,  when  I  wake  up,"  said  Louis,  in 
his  husky,  fat  voice,  "I  say  to  myself,  I  say,  'You 
can  stick  it  out  till  bedtime.'  Und  at  bedtime  I 
say,  'Veil,  I  haf  passed  anoder  day.  Now  I  vill  haf 
mine  sleep  again.'  So  der  time  goes  by,  und  I  should 
worry?  My  pay,  it  keeps  on — und  nod  in  Mexican 
money,  either,  no  siree!  A  check  goes  each  month 
to  mine  bank  in  Los  Angeles,  Cal.  Ven  I  can't  stick 
it  out  no  longer,  I  vill  go  back — unless  things  get 
quiet  here." 

One  day  when  I  was  talking  with  Louis  a  poor 
woman,  young  and  hollow-eyed  and  wanly  pretty,  en- 
tered the  patio,  carrying  the  most  emaciated  little 
bundle  of  bones  and  rag  that  ever  was  called  a  baby. 
Antonio,  the  bartender,  came  out  from  behind  the 
little  bar  where  he  concocted  American  mixed  drinks 
when  a  rare  customer  would  come,  and  joined  the 
woman. 

"Antonio's  wife  and  baby  boy,"  said  Louis* 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  baby?"  I  asked. 

"What's  the  matter  with  all  der  liddle  children  in 
Mazatlan?"  Louis  replied.  "They  are  starving,  and 
der  weak  women  cannot  nurse  them,  und  der  sickness 
comes — so  they  die  like — like  flies." 

I  could  not  stand  the  sight,  and  rose  to  go. 

Then  the  impulse  came. 

I  drew  from  my  pocket  a  picture  of  the  Little 
Flower. 

"Translate  for  me,  Louis,"  I  said.  "Please  tell 
the  woman  that  this  is  the  picture  of  a  Saint,  who  is 
doing  much  to  help  poor  people.  Tell  her  to  put  the 
picture  under  the  baby's  pillow — and  maybe  the  baby 
will  get  better." 


338  The  High  Romance 

So  the  kindly  German- Jew  told  the  woman  what 
I  said.  She  grabbed  the  picture  eagerly.  She 
kissed  it.  "Ah,  Santa,  Santa!"  she  cried.  She 
touched  the  bundle  of  bones  and  rag  with  the  picture. 
Antonio,  the  husband,  grinned  sheepishly. 

And  I  went  away — and  soon  forgot  it  all.  For  I 
was  concerned  with  an  affair  of  my  own  which  was 
deeply  troubling  me. 

5.  My  Anniversary 

It  was  drawing  near  the  first  anniversary  of  my 
visit  to  the  Carmelite  monastery,  and  there  had  come 
into  my  mind  a  haunting,  irresistible  persuasion  that 
on  that  day,  once  more,  something  was  going  to  hap- 
pen— something  supernatural — something  of  the  kind 
that  had  marked  the  day  when  I  first  reached  the  foot 
of  Mount  Carmel. 

I  could  not  shake  off  this  feeling.  Yet  I  tried  hard 
to  do  so.  For  I  knew  very  well  that  it  is  wrong  and 
dangerous  to  seek  for  or  to  invite  or  to  welcome 
signs,  omens,  or  wonders  from  the  world  behind  the 
veil. 

If  these  happen  spontaneously — ^that  is  different: 
yet  even  then  we  must  be  cautious,  we  must  refuse 
to  be  credulous  and  eager.  For  unless  such  things 
lead  to  good  works,  and  improvement  of  moral  life, 
and  increase  of  faith,  they  lead  to  evil  and  not  to 
good.  Faith  in  God  is  the  only  safe  guide  for  the 
questing  soul.  No  true  mystic  looks  for  signs  and 
wonders  or  strives  to  open  the  door  of  the  soul  to 
psychic  manifestations. 

There  are  such  things  as  spiritual  vanity  and  glut- 


Sister  Teresa  Confirmed  Her  Favour     339 

tony  and  selfishness,  and  these  are  most  actively  at 
work  in  the  cases  of  those  who  go  seeking  after  super- 
natural wonders  for  the  sake  of  spiritual  thrills,  ex- 
citements, and  adventures. 

Here  is  where  Catholic  mysticism  differs  pro- 
foundly from  the  various  so-called  mystical  cults  of 
the  age.  No  saint  may  be  canonized  by  the  Church 
if  the  evidence  in  the  case  does  not  prove  that  the 
miracles  and  wonders  of  his  life  produced  good  re- 
sults, led  to  increased  faith,  and  hope,  and  charity: 
and  humility,  and  temperance,  justice,  and  fortitude. 

By  their  fruits  ye  shall  know  them!  The  saints 
of  God  are  good:  they  don't  just  talk  about  good. 
They  are  not  magicians,  soothsayers,  necromancers, 
or  sorcerers;  they  are  seekers  after  God  who  in  their 
journey  through  this  life  are  sometimes  granted  ex- 
traordinary gifts  or  powers  or  experiences  in  order 
to  confirm  the  power  of  God  and  of  the  laws  of  God: 
laws  which  are  not  the  laws  of  men.  God  is  Law, 
and  all  that  He  does  is  lawful,  and  never  more  so 
than  in  those  manifestations  of  His  will  which 
transcend  the  processes  of  nature,  and  are  termed 
miraculous. 

This  I  knew  as  soon  as  Faith  came  to  me;  and 
with  all  my  will  I  essayed  to  put  away  from  my  mind 
this  thought,  this  presentiment,  that  on  the  anniversary 
of  my  visit  to  Carmel  I  should  once  more  know  that 
Sister  Teresa  was  near  me.  But  I  could  not  do 
so.  .  .  . 

On  the  evening  before  the  day  I  went  ashore,  and 
found  a  Spanish  priest  at  the  little  Carmelite  church 
who  confessed  me.  I  stayed  that  night  at  the  home 
of  an  American  acquaintance.     At  dawn  I  went  to 


340  The  High  Romance 

the  little  church,  and  communicated  in  honour  of 
the  day  and  all  it  meant  to  me. 

After  Mass  I  returned  to  the  house  of  my  acquaint- 
ance, my  mind  still  full  of  the  presentiment.  Break- 
fast over,  my  acquaintance  and  I  sat  on  the  veranda 
of  his  house,  chatting  idly,  when  all  at  once  a  couple 
of  bullets  went  snapping  by  us,  followed  almost  in- 
stantaneously by  the  crack!  crack!  of  the  rifle  shots. 

Somebody  had  opened  fire  upon  us  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  fort.  We  ran  behind  the  house  as  three 
more  shots  spat  viciously  at  us. 

However,  that  was  all.  There  was  no  attack. 
Some  soldiers,  apparently,  had  opened  fire  from  the 
distance,  but  did  not  mean  to  follow  up  the  bullets. 
Yet  it  was  obvious  that  the  exposed  position  of  the 
house  would  keep  us  in  a  dangerous  state  if  we  re- 
mained; so,  by  and  by,  we  cautiously  evacuated  the 
premises,  and  made  our  way  into  the  city.  For  sev- 
eral hours  after  that  we  were  busy  going  about  warn- 
ing the  members  of  the  foreign  colony  of  the  episode, 
which  might,  we  feared,  be  the  prelude  to  a  general 
attack  upon  Americans. 

6.  Another  Rose  From  Heaven 

Naturally,  the  bullets,  and  the  excitement,  and  the 
menace,  had  driven  all  memory  of  my  thoughts  about 
Sister  Teresa  out  of  my  mind. 

But  Sister  Teresa  did  not  forget.  The  bullets  did 
not  upset  her  plans  one  bit.  In  fact,  they  helped  her, 
inasmuch  as  they  drove  my  consciousness  quite  away 
from  all  brooding  over  my  presentiment,  and  made 
what  happened  all  the  more  objective. 


Sister  Teresa  Confirmed  Her  Favour     341 

For  when  I  entered  the  patio  of  the  hotel  that  after- 
noon about  four  o'clock,  all  recollection  of  my 
psychic  warning,  and  of  the  meaning  of  the  day,  had 
vanished. 

I  had  also  forgotten  all  about  Antonio's  baby;  for 
when  the  bartender  rushed  out  into  the  patio  as  I 
entered,  and  jumped  at  me  and  grabbed  my  hands, 
wringing  them  violently,  and  pouring  forth  a  babble 
of  Spanish-Mexican  jargon,  I  was  utterly  bewildered. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him,  Louis?"  I  asked. 

The  German-Jew  said:  "Why  he's  thanking  you 
for  the  picture  of  that  little  Saint.  His  baby  got 
veil  and  strong,  all  at  once,  when  the  picture  was  put 
under  its  pillow.  Dot  iss  so.  I  haf  seen  the  baby 
mineself.  It  voss  going  to  die,  and  now  it  iss  all 
quite  veil  again." 

Which  was  exactly  true.  I  afterward  looked  into 
the  matter  more  closely.  Sister  Teresa  remembered 
my  anniversary.  She  did  not  throw  me  a  rose  from 
her  mystical  garden.  There  was  no  odour  as  of  in- 
cense ;  there  was  no  touch  of  the  poetry  of  spiritual  ro- 
mance ;  there  was  no  delectation  of  my  personal  sense 
of  delight  in  the  high  adventures  of  the  soul. 

No. 

But,  through  my  little  sister  in  heaven,  I  learned 
one  of  the  primary  lessons  of  life  and  love,  namely, 
the  fact  that  if  God  gives  us  roses,  or  gives  us  faith, 
or  gives  us  gifts  or  powers,  little  or  great.  He  does  not 
mean  us  to  keep  them  for  ourselves;  we  must  com- 
municate them  all  to  others. 

Thus  the  Little  Flower  remembered  and  marked 
the  first  anniversary  of  my  coming  to  Carmel. 


CHAPTER  XV 

CONCLUSION 

NEARLY  five  years  have  gone  by  since  I  found 
my  way  to  Garmel.  After  returning  from  Mex- 
ico, when  the  Great  War  had  cast  Mexico  into  the 
shadow  of  newspaper  oblivion,  my  paths  of  quest 
ran  through  less  obviously  romantic  places  and  cir- 
cumstances. The  prosaic  toil  of  daily  duty  claimed 
me  more  and  more — ^that  toil  which  in  other 
years  of  the  pilgrimage  I  had  either  evaded  or 
ignored. 

But,  now,  all  life  has  become  a  romance. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  exhilarating,  marvellous 
sense  of  an  expansion  of  interest,  of  a  deepening  of 
zest,  of  a  lifting  up,  as  it  were,  of  the  horizon  line, 
which  more  and  more  was  mine  as  I  went  on  farther 
and  farther  in  my  new  life.  This,  too,  despite  the 
fact  that  these  latter  years  held  keener  and  more 
afflicting  misfortunes,  graver  and  more  difficult  prob- 
lems, harder  and  more  bitter  troubles,  than  any  I 
had  known  before — though  I  had  thought  myself 
so  singularly  the  buffet  of  fate,  the  plaything  of  ap- 
parently malicious  circumstances.  But  over  these 
matters,  I  drop  the  curtain.  In  the  deeper  sense  of 
the  word,  they  do  not  matter — yet  in  even  a  greater 
sense,  they  matter  profoundly:  for  by  them  I  tested 
this  new  life,  this  sword  and  armour  of  Faith,  and  I 
found  them  invulnerable. 

The  path  of  the  high  romance  led  me  beyond  the 
342 


Conclusion  343 

valleys  of  illusion,  and  the  roadside  inns  of  the  en- 
chanters could  no  longer  tempt  me  with  drugged 
wines. 

I  set  my  face  toward  the  real  adventure,  the  true 
romance. 

The  coloured  mists  and  make-believe  of  my 
previous  essays  in  the  "mystical"  sufficed  me  not 
when  the  real  thing  began.  Now  I  know  that  it  is  not 
what  I  write  but  what  I  am  that  matters.  God  forbid 
that  I  should  claim  that  what  I  am  is  of  any  particular 
value,  save  to  God,  who  loves  all  human  souls, 
great  and  small,  alike;  but  God  Himself  implants 
the  hope  that  even  I  may  so  live  as  to  merit  life:  that 
I  may  use  my  art  not  for  art's  sake,  but  for  God's 
sake;  and  thus  play  a  part,  even  if  a  most  minor  one, 
in  the  war  of  wills  which  is  destined  to  follow  the 
war  of  shot  and  shell.  For  I  believe  that  this  coun- 
try, under  God,  will  know  a  new  birth  of  freedom,  and 
that  in  the  almost  universal  overthrowing  of  the  pil- 
lars of  government  and  society  which  must  follow  the 
war,  government  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for  the 
people,  will  indeed  not  perish  from  the  earth  but  will 
rather  kindle  a  new  fire  on  the  altar  of  the  new  nation 
of  the  West;  a  fire  which  so  long,  and  so  long  only,  as 
it  bums  first  of  all  as  an  offering  to  God,  will  light 
and  warm  the  hearts  and  homes  of  untold  millions  of 
human  beings. 

But  there  is  a  great  and  growing  peril  to  be  over- 
come, else  not  liberty  but  slavery  will  be  our  portion 
— a  slavery  more  abject  and  degrading  than  any  that 
has  ever  come  upon  us. 

In  our  country  we  are  face  to  face  with  the  menace 
of  paganism;  a  new  paganism  which  sets  up  the  worst 


344  The  High  Romance 

of  all  idols — that  monstrous  thing,  the  godless  "State" 
which  in  Prussia  became  incarnate  in  Kaiserism,  but 
which  in  America  threatens  to  become  a  bureaucracy, 
dominated  by  a  plutocracy,  served  by  a  priesthood 
of  false  mystics,  and  glorified  by  an  art  that  idolizes 
the  senses,  and  drugs  the  soul  with  visions  of  an  im- 
possible earthly  Paradise.  .  .  . 

Against  this,  only  Christianity  can  hope  to  prevail. 

Christian  Democracy  is  the  only  perfect  democ- 
racy, and  nothing  but  perfect  democracy  will  be 
finally  accepted  by  men,  whose  kings  have  failed 
them,  and  whose  tyrants  are  being  overthrown, 
whether  these  tyrants  wear  imperial  purple,  or  come 
disguised  in  the  demagoguery  of  the  godless  press,  or 
as  an  oligarchy  of  materialistic  interests,  or  as  self- 
chosen  champions  of  mob-rule. 

The  spirit  of  Christ  is  the  dissolvent  of  all  tyrannies 
and  the  very  life  of  liberty,  and  of  the  happiness 
which  men  have  the  right,  nay,  the  command  of  God, 
to  possess.  "Follow  Me,  for  I  am  the  Way,  the 
Truth,  and  the  Life."  So  said  Christ,  the  God-man, 
the  Divine  Artist,  the  living  Poem  of  the  Purpose  of 
God,  the  Liberator  of  the  soul,  the  Guide  to  Beauty 
and  to  Joy.  And  in  the  Prayer  of  Prayers  He  gave 
us  the  permanent  platform  of  the  only  political  party 
that  can  truly  succeed :  that  great  party  which  is  made 
up  of  all  those  who  consciously  follow  the  standard 
of  Christ,  or  who,  led  by  His  Spirit,  belong  to  the 
soul  if  not  always  to  the  body  of  His  Church. 

Our  Father: 

{Oh,  words  which  bind  all  men  together  in  a  com- 


Conclusion  345 

mon  bond  of  dependence,  of  brotherhood,  under  one 
Creator.) 

Who  art— 

{Oh,  everlasting  affirmation  of  the  One  Reality, 
Thou  art  indeed!) 

In  Heaven — 

(As  St.  Francis  said:  ^'In  heaven,  that  is,  in  the 
angels  and  in  the  Saints,  illuminating  them  with 
Light,  for  Thou  art  Truth,  inflaming  them  with  Love, 
for  Thou  art  Love  Itself."  And  from  Heaven, 
through  Thy  Angels  and  Saints,  Thou  givest  light  and 
life  and  love  to  thy  servants  of  all  ranks  and  station: 
to  poets,  artists,  teachers,  statesmen,  rulers,  workmen, 
craftsmen,  and  men  of  business;  men  of  the  law,  men 
of  trade;  tillers  of  the  soil;  fishers  in  the  sea — but 
most  of  all  to  those  who,  like  Mary,  the  sister  of  busy 
Martha,  are  content  to  love  Thee  and  to  look  upon 
Thee.) 

Hallowed  be  Thy  Name — 

{Here  is  the  Object  and  the  Purpose  of  all  life  and 
labour  and  art — the  glory  of  God:  for  He,  being  God, 
therefore  Good,  hence  our  Lover,  knows  that  in  glori- 
fying God  man  finds  his  true  life,  his  real  liberty,  his 
only  lasting  happiness.) 

Thy  Kingdom  come — 

{Oh,  quickly  come!) 

Thy  Will  be  done — 

{Which  are  the  words  that  in  all  finality  express 
the  central  and  fundamental  essential  of  human  life, 
art,  government,  science  and  religion.  God  is.  His 
will  be  done.  How  could  it  be  possible  for  aught 
but  good  to  come  of  that  Will,  which  is  the  Will-to- 
Love?) 


346  The  High  Romance 

Forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  we  forgive  those  who 
trespass  against  us.  Lead  us  not  into  temptation, 
and  deliver  us  from  evil.     Amen. 


The  Colophon 

I  have  many  good  friends,  I  know,  to  whom  I 
appear  a  turn-coat  to  great  causes:  the  causes  of 
"progress,"  "enlightenment,"  "humanity,"  to  which 
I  was  once  so  passionately  devoted.  They  cannot  un- 
derstand my  "reactionary  step."  But  they  believe 
the  reasons  for  my  action  to  be  rooted  in  what  they 
feel  to  be  an  excess  of  emotionalism  in  my  tempera- 
ment, combined  with  a  strain  of  atavistic  romanticism. 
.  .  .  The  odour  and  the  misty  coils  of  incense  fuming 
before  the  candle-lighted  altar,  the  ritualistic  beauty 
of  sacerdotal  ceremonies,  the  glamorous  enchantment 
of  occult  interests,  these,  together  with  music,  and, 
no  doubt,  the  relief  which  adhesion  to  fixed  points 
of  conduct  and  belief  gave  to  a  nature  unfitted  for  the 
cold,  hard,  steady  labour  of  intellectual  and  moral 
pursuits,  explain  to  their  minds  my  surprising  and 
saddening  act.  .  .  .  Well,  possibly,  nay,  probably, 
my  own  explanation  will  leave  these  friends  uncon- 
vinced; nevertheless  I  take  the  chance.  I  owe  it  to 
myself  as  well  as  to  these  friends  to  give  my  own  ac- 
count of  the  matter. 

I  fear  I  am  indeed  almost  fanatical  in  my  devotion 
to  art,  and  that  my  cravings  for  its  manifestations  are 
almost  too  intense — but  as  for  finding  Catholicism  a 
luxurious  revel  of  aestheticism  and  romanticism — 
Ah,  but  no!  It  is  true  that  there  is  great  art  in  the 
Church;  but  it  does  not  show  itself  in  any  marked 


Conclusion  347 

degree  at  present  in  these  modem  times,  certainly  not 
in  tlie  United  States.  It  will  come  by  and  by,  yes, 
but  now  there  is  little  or  none.  Our  church  music 
generally  is  atrocious;  no  condemnation  can  be  too 
strong.  Our  architecture  is  not  much  better.  Our 
statues  and  our  pictures,  and  our  books  and  our  peri- 
odical press  (save  for  a  few  and  now  happily  increas- 
ing number  of  writers  and  journals)  are  frightfully 
banal.  The  level  of  culture  and  art,  at  present,  is 
deplorably  low.  If  I  had  joined  the  Catholic  Church 
for  the  sake  of  satisfying  my  aesthetic  desires,  no  mis- 
take of  my  life  would  have  been  greater.  .  .  . 

But  I  joined  it  to  satisfy  the  hunger  of  my  soul 
for  God.  For  I  would  rather,  a  hundred  million 
times  over,  be  the  crudest,  most  ignorant,  humblest 
man  who  ever  came  out  of  Catholic  France  or  Ireland, 
or  Poland,  or  Silesia;  I  would  rather  be  an  African 
jungle  dweller,  or  a  Digger  Indian,  and  have  true 
Catholic  faith  than  to  be  the  greatest  and  most  cul- 
tured artist  in  the  world,  and  devoid  of  faith. 

For  it  is  by  faith  that  we  live  the  only  life  worth 
while,  the  life  of  the  true  romance. 

And  God  who  is  no  niggard  with  His  bounty  added 
to  His  gift  of  faith  two  minor  yet  great  favours,  by 
means  of  which  it  was  more  practicable  for  me  to 
make  my  faith  work,  in  the  pragmatic  sense  of  the 
word — that  is,  to  render  it  in  terms  of  art,  and  terms 
of  life.  Faith's  deeper  and  truest  work  has  lit- 
tle direct  relation,  oftentimes,  to  outward  and  visi- 
ble results;  but  for  me  the  exterior  results  were  per- 
mitted. 


348  The  High  Romance 

For  on  the  day  when  I  kneh  before  His  altar,  on 
the  feast  day  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Garmel,  God  took 
away  from  me,  instantly,  and  fully,  all  temptation  to 
fall  into  that  degrading  and  crippling  vice  to  which  I 
have  been  obliged  to  refer  too  often  for  my  own  com- 
fort— I  mean,  the  evil  habit  of  drinking  to  excess.  It 
was  banished;  it  never  returned.  What  my  own  will 
could  not  do,  God's  will  accomplished. 

Also,  He  restored  me  to  health;  He  gave  me  back 
my  energy  and  bodily  strength. 

Therefore,  when  there  came  another  day  upon 
which  I  once  more  knelt  before  God's  altar,  and  was 
admitted  to  membership  in  the  Third  Order  of  Most 
Holy  Mary  of  Mount  Garmel,  I  assumed — in  accord- 
ance with  the  ancient  custom — a  title,  and  became 
Michael  of  the  Will  of  God.  For  now  I  knew  that 
indeed  the  will  of  man  is  a  greater  and  vaster  and 
more  awful  force  than  I  had  ever  dreamed  of  it  being 
in  the  days  of  my  most  exalted  self -deification.  I 
also  realized  that  there  is  only  one  employment 
worthy  of  such  a  power,  namely,  to  work  the  will  of 
God.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  dare  to  affirm  that  I  have 
succeeded — or  that  I  may  ever  wholly  succeed — in 
this  great  work;  but  I  know  that  this  work  is  the  only 
thing  which  is  commensurate  with  man's  dignity,  and 
his  imperial  destiny,  and  I  know  that  it  is  the  high  se- 
cret of  the  Holy  Grail,  the  Cup  of  Quest — ^that  Grail 
which  I  sought  all  my  life,  and  which  all  men  seek  in 
their  hearts,  and  which  so  long  baffled  my  search,  but 
which  in  a  million  places  throughout  the  world,  every 
minute  of  the  day  and  night,  is  held  up,  shining  and 
marvellous,  in  the  plain  sight  of  all  men,  while  the 
appointed  Servant  of  the  Sacrifice  says  above  it: 


Conclusion  349 

"0  God,  who  in  creating  human  nature,  didst  won- 
derfully dignify  it,  and  hast  still  more  wonderfully 
renewed  it;  grant  that,  by  the  mystery  of  this  water 
and  wine,  we  may  be  made  partakers  of  his  divinity 
who  vouchsafed  to  become  partaker  of  our  hu- 
manity," 

So  I  came  back  from  far  places  to  my  poor,  shat- 
tered Book.  Returning  to  the  hut  in  the  pine  wood 
of  Garmel,  for  a  space,  I  put  together  the  fragments 
of  all  I  had  written — such  a  huge  mass! — during 
some  twenty  years.  I  left  out  a  great  deal.  There 
were  certain  chapters  and  episodes  which  made  liter- 
ary capital  of  what,  later  on,  I  dealt  with  in  the  only 
right  way:  in  the  confessional — and  all  such  morbidi- 
ties I  threw  into  the  fire,  where  they  belonged.  Into 
the  same  clean  purging  flame,  also,  went  heaps  of 
similar  stuff;  all  the  tortuous  efforts  to  express  my 
baffled  questing;  the  huge,  crazy  novel  written  during 
that  frenetic  period  in  New  York  when  I  shut  myself 
up  in  my  garret;  the  self-willed  rules  of  life  which 
I  could  not  follow;  the  creeds  and  confessions.  So 
I  burned  my  bridges,  my  dangerous  and  fantastic 
bridges.  And  because  I  had  learned  that  not  shout- 
ing from  the  housetops,  but  silence,  and  reticence, 
were  the  true  friends  of  the  soul,  I  considered  whether 
I  should  not  let  this  book  also  perish;  but  be- 
cause my  story  has  such  a  happy  ending,  I  kept  it 
from  the  fire,  and  I  send  it  forth  as  an  act  of 
faith. 

And  now,  as  the  colophon  to  my  story,  I  wish  and 
pray  for  all  who  may  be  good  and  patient  enough  to 


350  The  High  Romance 

read  my  words,  success  in  their  own  adventures,  the 
gaining  of  the  quest  of  their  high  romance,  and  joy 
and  peace  at  the  end  of  all,  the  joy  of  Jesus  Christ. 


THE   END 


PBIKTliD   IN   THE   UNITKD   STATES   OF   AMEBICA 


T^HE  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of  a  few  of  the 
Macmillan  novels. 


The  Tree  of  Heaven 

By  may  SINCLAIR 

Cloth,  $i.6o 

"  Thoughtful,  dramatic,  vivid,  always  well  and  at  times  beau- 
tifully written,  full  of  real  people  skilfully  analyzed  and  pre- 
sented, '  The  Tree  of  Heaven '  is  one  of  the  few  great  books 
which  have  as  yet  come  out  of  the  war." — New  York  Times. 

"  Miss  Sinclair's  genius  consists  in  being  able  to  combine  great 
art  with  a  popular  storj'^-telling  gift.  All  her  detail,  the  many 
little  miracles  of  observation  and  understanding,  are  not  dead 
nor  catalogued,  but  are  merged  into  the  living  body  of  her  con- 
tinuously interesting  narrative." — New  York  Globe. 

"Genius  illumines  every  page  of  one  of  the  most  impressive 
works  of  fiction  of  today.  It  is  a  novel  of  extraordinary  power 
and  worth  ranking  assuredly  among  the  novels  of  our  time 
which  will  make  a  lasting  mark  on  literature  and  upon  human 
thought  and  life." — New  York  Tribune. 

"  Miss  Sinclair  has  written  nothing  that  so  perfectly  represents 
the  chaotic  spirit  of  England  during  the  past  twenty  years.  The 
story  contains  much  of  matters  that  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
war  and  in  all  of  them  she  has  portrayed  the  English  character 
to  the  life." — Boston  Transcript. 

"The  Book  of  the  day  is  'The  Tree  of  Heaven.'  It  is  a 
war  novel  —  a  gripping  cne.  The  story  does  not  take  us  out 
of  England  except  in  a  few  letters  written  from  the  battlefields 
towards  the  close  of  the  book,  but  it  shows  powerfully  the  ef- 
fect of  war  on  England,  as  represented  by  a  typical  group  of 
people,  a  most  loveable  family,  and  their  varied  connections  and 
friends." —  Philadelphia  Telegraph. 

"  Stands  out  at  once,  and  emphatically,  from  the  common  run 
of  books  because  it  is  a  work  of  art.  ...  A  work  of  sheer 
artistry,  well  worth  the  doing,  and  done  at  the  full  strength  and 
compass  of  skilled  workmanship,  it  ranks  fairly  among  the  best 
work  of  its  kind  in  modern  fiction ;  among  the  very  best." — 
New  York  Sun. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers     G4--66  Fifth  Avenue     New  York 


First  the  Blade: 

A  Comedy  of  Growth 

By  CLEMENCE  DANE 
Author  of  "  Regiment  of  Women." 

Cloth,  i2tno. 

With  the  publication  of  ''  Regiment  of  Women  "  Miss 
Dane  at  once  took  her  place  among  the  modern  novelists 
who  are  doing  important  and  interesting  work.  The  pub- 
lication of  this  new  story  is  sure  to  confirm  the  favorable 
impression  which  her  first  work  made.  It  may  be 
described  as  the  story  of  two  young  people  in  love  and 
their  development  under  the  influence  of  their  emotions. 
"A  Comedy  Of  Growth,"  the  author  calls  it,  and  the 
sub-title  is  completely  realized.  It  is  comedy  in  the  true 
Meredithian  sense.  There  is  genuine  suspense  in  watch- 
ing the  actual  growth  of  two  persons  who  are  extraor- 
dinarily alive.  It  is  doubtful  if  more  unusual  characters 
have  appeared  in  recent  fiction,  than  these  two  central 
figures  of  Miss  Dane's.  The  minor  characters,  too,  are 
no  less  surely  drawn. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers     64-66  Fifth  Avenue     New  York 


Flood  Tide 


By  DANIEL  CHASE 
With  Frontispiece. 

Decorated  cloth,  izmo. 

Mr.  Chase's  leading  character  is  a  man,  essentially  a 
student  and  dreamer,  who  is  forced  by  circumstances  into 
a  business  career.  The  story  of  his  success,  of  the  price 
which  he  pays  for  it  and  of  the  way  in  which  he  ultimately 
achieves  the  happiness  which  eluded  him  for  so  long, 
makes  very  interesting  reading.  The  spirit  of  the  sea 
broods  over  the  entire  narrative,  adding  much  to  its  charm. 
The  lad's  boyhood  in  a  New  England  coast  town  is  most 
convincingly  portrayed ;  later  his  poignant  melancholy  in 
the  midst  of  material  success  in  the  city,  and  his  loneliness 
of  spirit  are  handled  with  vividness  and  insight.  The  tale 
is  one  not  soon  forgotten. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers     64-66  Fifth  Avenue     New  York 


The  Flying  Teuton 


By  ALICE  BROWN 

Author  of  "The  Prisoner,"   ''Bromley  Neighborhood," 
etc.     With  Frontispiece. 

Cloth,  unto. 


Miss  Brown  has  long  been  known  as  one  of  the  fore- 
most American  writers  of  short  stories.  In  this  book 
new  proof  is  given  of  her  skill  and  versatility.  From 
the  initial  tale  —  a  truly  remarkable  work  looking  into 
the  future  and  picturing  some  of  the  after-effects  of  the 
great  war  —  to  the  last  piece  in  the  collection,  it  shows 
the  skilled  literary  workmanship,  the  thorough  under- 
standing of  character  and  the  sure  dramatic  instinct  which 
readers  have  come  to  expect  of  the  author  of  "  The 
Prisoner  "  and  "  Bromley  Neighborhood." 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers     64r-66  Fifth  Avenue     New  York 


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